Marius' Mules: Prelude to War

by Turney, S. J. A.

  He’d armoured himself, then; as, hopefully, had everyone else. Resistance, of course, smacked of futility, if the Arvernian rebel decided that the Romans would die, which seemed the inevitable conclusion. After all, there were only six men in the farm, and only three of them heavily armoured legionaries, while the warriors at their door alone numbered twenty. And, of course, they were surrounded by Arverni settlements and, after what had just happened in Gergovia it was hard to imagine any of the tribe holding to their Roman oaths.

  But it was not in the nature of the Roman soldier to submit when a weapon was to hand, and Priscus would have been shocked if what he heard next had been anything different.

  ‘Begone,’ came the voice of Cenialis, accompanied by the familiar sound of a blade drawn from a wood and leather sheath and catching slightly on the bronze fittings at the end.

  Clearly the legionary had seen events unfolding at a distance and had had the foresight to enter the building, warn his companions and begin kitting up. Only his quick decision could have resulted in his being so prepared so quickly. There had been no point in dissembling. If the war-band made for the farm, subterfuge was pointless and it would be better to be armed, and if they went about their business without any attention to the farm, the legionaries would simply return to their disguises.

  No point now, in denying their Roman status.

  Priscus could see Vercingetorix facing the building, the long Celtic blade in his hand. The Arverni rebel smiled then, and in that moment Priscus knew that every occupant of the farm was dead – not that he’d had much doubt about that anyway.

  ‘You have an officer of Caesar’s army among you. A prefect of high standing, I believe.’

  Priscus felt his heart sink. Pixtilos had told them more than he thought. ‘Til this moment there had been the possibility that the three men hiding in the ditch might be able to escape this place unnoticed. It was not a matter of fear or self-preservation, of course. Priscus would rather stand by his men and die honourably than run from a fight and leave them to face the enemy alone. But someone had to get word of these events to the army and its leaders, and the three officers in the gulley were now that someone. There was no one else. But if Vercingetorix knew of the prefect’s presence, then their chances had just plummeted.

  ‘We have to get word out,’ Priscus hissed to his companions.

  Fabius and Furius both nodded their agreement, but their faces were troubled. ‘How, though?’ asked Fabius, one of his eyes turning to Priscus. ‘We’re deep in Arverni territory, and the army are on the other side of at least three tribes, including the Senones, the Carnutes and the Aedui. To reach the main force is near two hundred miles, all through probably hostile lands, and we don’t speak a word of their tongue!’

  Priscus nodded disconsolately. There was at best a slim chance of success there. ‘It’s only about a hundred miles east to the Rhodanus. There’s allied depots all along that river.’

  ‘A hundred miles of mostly mountains,’ reminded Furius.

  ‘You need to go, anyway,’ Priscus grunted. ‘Do your best and stick to the wilds as much as you can. Avoid all built-up areas.’

  ‘Suicide,’ replied Furius quietly.

  ‘You have to go. Word has to get out, and I will have to…’

  He fell silent and shrank down towards the turf as three of the warriors came around the corner of the farmhouse, poking into the huts and hutches.

  ‘We are officers of Rome,’ came another voice from the front of the house. ‘We are allies of the Arverni tribe and citizens of the republic, and if you wish your tribe to keep the advantages Rome graciously allows them, you will leave this farm and remove your threatening presence.’

  Priscus frowned. That sounded like Flaccus. He was doing a passable imitation of a commanding tone, given that the man had about as much class as a latrine cleaner and roughly as much command experience. He was with them because he was a low, sneaky, oft-arrested thief and capable of thinking on his feet. It was exceptionally odd listening to him taking such a noble stance.

  The speaker stepped partially into sight and Priscus’ eyes widened. The sneaky little shit had strapped on Priscus’ harness of medals, jammed his embossed helm on that unruly mop of red hair, and pinned the luxuriant senior officer’s cloak about his shoulders. If you didn’t know he was a man who’d spent more time in the stockade than in armour, he could almost pass for an officer.

  ‘Prefect Priscus? Of Caesar’s staff?’ the Arverni chieftain said, his eyebrows tilting in suspicion.

  ‘Soon to be Prefect Priscus, arse-kicker of Gauls if you do not step back and sheathe that blade!’ snapped Flaccus.

  Priscus shook his head in wonder and, despite their predicament, Furius grinned. ‘Gods alive, he does actually sound like you!’ he whispered.

  ‘You would do well to keep your silence and issue fewer threats, Prefect,’ the Arverni noble barked, taking an angry step forward. ‘Your time here is at an end. The Carnutes have struck the first blow, massacring the Roman depot at Cenabum, and your army’s supply lines are now severed. Your legions in the north are settled into their winter quarters, unaware of the storm building around them, and will not move from their camps without their general’s authorisation.’

  ‘Or so you believe,’ Flaccus sneered convincingly.

  ‘They will not,’ Vercingetorix replied with confidence. ‘And your general is mired in the politics and troubles of Rome, unable to leave his palace. I offer you a choice, Prefect…’

  ‘My arse!’

  Again, anger flared in the rebel’s eyes.

  ‘I offer you this choice: submit yourself to interrogation and I will give you my word that your companions will be despatched swiftly and mercifully, to a man.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ snapped Flaccus through the ill-fitting prefect’s helmet

  ‘He really does sound like you,’ hissed Fabius.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Priscus replied quietly, in the face of Fabius’ grin.

  Again the flare of anger from the Arverni rebel.

  ‘Resist me and each of you will suffer such that you will beg a thousand times for death before revered Sucullus enfolds you in his grey cloak. Some will burn. Some will learn the agonies of the stake. Some will be left peeled and raw for the scavengers. Your submission for your companions’ merciful deaths. It is the only offer I will make.’

  ‘Up your bum-hole, rebel.’

  Furius almost laughed out loud, but Priscus shook his head resignedly. The man had just removed any hope of mercy.

  Vercingetorix turned to look at the druid, who shrugged. ‘Take them,’ the leader commanded his men. ‘I want as many as possible alive.

  The rest of the warriors stepped forward towards the Romans who were hidden by the building, but Priscus could hear the other ‘farmers’ stepping out of the doorway, their mail swishing as they moved, weapons and shields clonking and clanging. They were outnumbered three to one, and Priscus was under no illusion that these warriors would be anything other than the best Vercingetorix had to offer.

  ‘Looks like it’s all three of us who need to leave,’ muttered Fabius. ‘And sharpish. Those other three are working round the farm looking for others, and you can bet they’ll search everywhere.’

  Priscus nodded. The Arverni leader would not be looking to let anyone go free and carry early warning to the republic.

  ‘Wish we could help them.’

  ‘We can’t. Come on.’

  Priscus shook his head. ‘We need the horses. To attempt to flee on foot is suicide. It’s at best two days’ journey to the nearest safe place by horse, without sleep or rest breaks. Imagine how long it will be by foot.’

  ‘We go anywhere near the stable and those three scouring the farm will see us,’ Furius reminded him.

  ‘None of us will manage a hundred mile foot-race through enemy-held territory,’ Priscus replied. He peered across the grassy lip at the farm. The stabling for the nine horses they’d brought with them and the two a
ncient nags already resident were at the bottom of the field, closer to the three of them than to the farm house itself. There was a chance. A very slim one, but a chance nonetheless. And they couldn’t make it without the horses.

  Even as he watched, Priscus drew in a sharp breath as he spotted movement at the stable door. One of the Gallic auxiliaries had been in the stable when the Arverni had arrived, and was peering around the door jamb watching the three searchers anxiously.

  ‘One of the scouts is in the stables.’

  The two tribunes peered over the lip alongside him, and exchanged a quick glance, nodding to each other.

  ‘You stay here,’ Furius hissed at Priscus.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You stay here and wait for us. If we get out with the horses run and join us. If we’re done for, just run.’

  ‘I’m not staying here on my own.’

  ‘Priscus, they already have their prefect. They won’t be looking for another one. So you have to get out of here. Just watch carefully.’

  Priscus reached out, opening his mouth to object, but the two tribunes were already launching themselves up over the edge of the gulley and into a low sprint towards the stable.

  The prefect half rose to follow, but sank back. Much as he hated it, they were right. Someone had to get word to the army, and as far as the enemy were concerned they weren’t looking for another prefect. He watched, as tense as he’d ever been, as his two companions raced to the stables, throwing themselves into the shelter of its rear, just as the three Arverni came out of the chicken coop, arguing, spluttering and brushing feathers from themselves. Had they been paying more attention to their surroundings than their discomfort, they would likely have seen their prey as they dived behind the timber shed.

  Holding his breath, Priscus watched from his vantage point, where he could see both the parties who were out of sight of one another. The tribunes were hissing whispered words through the cracks in the side wall of the stable. The Arverni were making for the pig pen. The sty there was little more than a low, wooden box with a door and would take no time to check. Then, the enemy would be faced with a choice. Either they would follow the hedge down to the stream and discover a cowering prefect, or they would cross the open grass into the stable. Damn it.

  Even as he wondered what he could do to help, he watched the three Arverni digging around in the muck of the pen with sticks, and crouching to peer into the sty structure. Old Tulla, the sow named lovingly after Furius’ first woman, grunted and shuffled within, making the three warriors laugh and holding their attention just long enough for the tribunes, seen out of the corner of Priscus’ eye, to nip round the corner and into the stable’s interior.

  Now they were trapped. Moments later with a little slapping and pushing over an apparently ribald joke, the Arverni turned and made for the stable door, which stood wide open, the interior dim and cluttered.

  Holding his breath, Priscus shook his head. Sense or no sense, he couldn’t cower here while the others fought for their lives in the stable, which was now inescapably what would happen.

  Keeping as low as he could, the prefect, just hidden from view by the lip of the gulley, scurried along towards the stable, his feet sucking and slipping in the mud. He couldn’t afford to run in the stream, for the noise would be loud and might attract attention. Fortunately, the three Arverni were too intent on laughing at their jokes to hear the gentle pounding of feet thirty paces away in the muddy ditch.

  Hoping he’d got his timing right, Priscus popped the top of his head over the edge once more and discovered, to his relief, that he’d come far enough for the stable building to hide the three warriors. Clambering from the gulley, he scrambled across the grass towards the structure, where he dropped down beside the side wall, where the other two had recently been, and peered through the wall’s cracks and into the gloom.

  There was no sign of the tribunes, or of the native auxiliary.

  Priscus frowned, and ducked sharply as the Arverni appeared in the doorway, silhouetted and squinting as they peered into the darkness. Just as they scoured the dim interior for non-equine life, so did Priscus. His heart beat a little faster as he spotted the four horses at this side and realised they’d been hastily saddled with Roman, four-horned saddles. Where were the others?

  The Arverni stepped into the stable, fanning out to search the darkened room.

  Priscus held his breath and began slowly to ease the sword from his scabbard.

  Another joke was shared between the three enemy warriors, and the one at the far end turned and made crude gestures at his companions, suggesting something that might involve one of the horses. Priscus nearly choked as he saw a figure rise up from a mound of straw, almost silently, behind the gesturing figure. The first the Avrernian warrior knew about his attacker was when a well-positioned gladius point erupted from his throat amid a spray of blood, his head tilting sharply as the spine broke. The only sound he had made was the gush of his lifeblood.

  The other two warriors swung around at the sudden movement, but as they did, a second figure dropped from the rafters, hammering one of them to the ground, where the auxiliary, unarmed and unarmoured, simply grabbed the Arverni’s head and repeatedly smashed it back against the floor until there was a loud crack and a flood of red among the straw.

  The third man managed a brief squawk of a cry before Fabius, sword in his good hand, emerged from behind the nearest horse and slammed the blade into the native’s chest up to the hilt. The warrior gasped and tried to bring his sword to bear, even in death, but Fabius simply slapped the spasming arm away, twisted the blade a half-circle, and then ripped it back out before repeating the process twice.

  Priscus blinked.

  In a matter of three heartbeats the stable had gone from being occupied only by three Arverni to occupied by three Romans and their victims’ corpses. He smiled. He had seen something in Fabius and Furius from their first days with the army and had suborned them any time he had a need for good men. They consistently proved his decisions correct.

  With a hiss, he gestured through one of the larger holes in the wall.

  ‘I’m here! Get the horses out.’

  Furius rolled his eyes and nudged Fabius as he crossed the stable. ‘Told you he’d not stay put.’

  ‘You’d think an officer would have more sense.’

  ‘On what fantasy do you base that bit of remarkable logic?’ laughed Furius as he strolled across to where the Aeduan auxiliary stood, panting and smiling with relief.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said Furius with deep feeling.

  The Aeduan frowned his incomprehension, and his eyes bulged as the tribune rammed his sword into the man’s chest and put a hand over his mouth to prevent him crying out.

  Priscus’ eyes widened in shock, but Fabius simply nodded and strode over to the horses.

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed Priscus. ‘We need every man. He’s one of us!’

  Furius turned his attention to the stable wall and the unseen speaker beyond, as he lowered the auxiliary’s body to the straw-strewn ground and then carefully wrapped the cold fingers around the hilt of his own sword, leaving it with the twitching corpse.

  ‘Unless you want someone following us, there needs to be a Roman body here. Three men don’t just walk into a hut and drop dead of blood loss. The Arverni will look for a killer. Now, they’ll find him. They don’t know how many horses there were, so they won’t come looking for us.’

  As Fabius removed the saddle from one of the four horses to comply with the visible tale, Furius bloodied two of the enemy’s blades with their own crimson, and then moved one of the men next to the Aeduan to suggest mutual death blows.

  As he rose once more, Fabius started leading the three horses to the doorway. Pausing, the pair peered out into the light, confirming there were no other Arverni watching, and then walked the horses quietly across the soft turf, around to the stable’s rear, where Priscus had straightened, a bleak and troubled look on his face
.

  ‘That was not an honourable thing. No coin under his tongue. You doomed him.’

  Furius shrugged. ‘They might check. Who could have put a coin there if he was alone? Think it through, sir. And if we don’t get word of this and Cenabum to the army, there’ll be a lot more doomed than one Gaul.’

  Much as he hated the tribune’s logic, Priscus couldn’t deny it. Hardening his heart against the sacrifices men made for war – even to their principles – he grasped the reins of the horse that was led to him and hauled himself up, turning the beast to face the valley beyond.

  As Priscus cast a last, sad glance across at the farm, he heard a cry in reverence to Mars and a clash of weapons somewhere behind the building. The massacre of the farm had begun. He could only hope that his men did not let themselves get taken alive or that, if they did, they held out under torture long enough for the three officers to be far away.

  The prefect, his heart darkened, ducked down over the horse’s mane and urged her into a run in the wake of Fabius and Furius, who were heading away, jumping the stream gulley and racing off across the grass and down the valley towards the river.

  Twenty heartbeats later, the three riders had moved around the edge of another thicket of trees and undergrowth which fully hid them from the farm up the hill, now small and peaceful in the distance. Priscus panted out for them to stop, hauling on his own reins. The two tribunes came to a halt, and the prefect rubbed his forehead.

  ‘We need to decide where we’re heading, ‘cause at the moment we’re pointed deeper into Arverni lands.’

  ‘Cross the river and head into the mountains for the Rhodanus, like you said?’ offered Fabius.

  Priscus shook his head. ‘The rebel said they’d severed the supply lines. That means the Rhodanus has probably been compromised. This isn’t just an Arverni thing. It’s big. The Rhodanus will be watched for Roman movement, and we’d be stepping into the jaws of the wolf. But they won’t be looking south. The Roman presence in Narbonensis is small and mostly civilian and mercantile. We head south, through the valleys of the southern mountains, making for Narbo. Once we reach Condatomagus, we’re in Roman territory, and that’s only about a hundred miles. From there we can make good time on solid roads to Narbo and board a ship for Massilia.’