Marius' Mules V: Hades' Gate

by S. J. A. Turney

  The primus pilus grinned as he selected a spiky haired head jutting up from the defences as his first target…

  Afterwards, Pullo would forget which century was first over the defences. It was Vorenus who distributed the wine; he who had watched that first man over the wall.

  Pullo, however, had only the vaguest memories of the battle. As he neared the top of the slope, a sling stone hit him a glancing blow in the forehead that skimmed past his temple drawing blood and tearing out his hair until it lodged painfully inside his helmet, just above the cheek piece. The capsarius would later tell him just how lucky he was to be alive.

  All he could remember was the sudden stunning blow and then the resulting loss of temper.

  He had taken out his anger on the defenders, not even pausing long enough to loosen his helmet and dislodge the stone. As he had clambered across a sycamore trunk, sharpened branch ends sticking out, he had gone to work with his gladius, plunging it again and again into the panicked Britons defending the bank.

  It might have been the unexpectedness of the attack that broke the enemy. It might have been the sheer voracity of the Roman force. It might have been the crazed bloodthirstiness of their senior centurion as he ripped and tore, stabbed and sliced his way into the fort's central space. Whatever the reason, before even the last of the Seventh legion were over the bank, the defenders had broken and run for it. Whooping, cheering Romans went to chase on down the far slopes of the fort as the defenders fled for the woodlands, only stopping as their centurions bellowed threats. Even then, the jeering invaders picked up the defenders' own rocks and hurled them down on the survivors, smashing and dismembering the fleeing Britons as they ran.

  For Pullo the attack ended as the adrenaline surge passed and he sank to his knees in the grass, sprayed with blood and gore, his sword crimson right to the pommel, his dented helmet still trapping the slingshot against his bruised skull.

  * * * * *

  The sun rose on a scene of blustery tranquillity that sat at odds with the night's activity. The trill of waxwings and the buzz of bees accompanied the muted shrieks of the wounded as the capsarii worked on them and the buzz of flies around the pile of Briton corpses at the far end of the hilltop.

  Tribune Furius, tired but hale, strode across the grass, his face a mask of grave concern, the Belgic scout who had arrived at the camp a few moments ago scurrying along at his heel. He paused as he passed a capsarius working on an officer.

  "Nice work last night" he commented.

  Pullo looked up, his vision slightly hampered by the linen wrap being wound round his head by the young man.

  "I won't let it go to my head" he grimaced as the capsarius pulled the wrap tight.

  On Furius strode again, his gaze fixed on the small knot of senior officers standing outside the front doorway of one of the sparse collection of huts which made up the farm that occupied this end of the fort. Caesar was deep in conversation with Priscus and Cicero. Of the other commanders there was no sign - the Ninth and Eleventh had been sent out to try and track down the survivors who had fled the attack and both legions had been gone since before first light. The Tenth and Seventh, having carried out the bulk of the attack, had been granted the morning to rest and recover as they secured the hilltop. Once the two pursuing legions returned, the general would decide whether to move on or to return to the beach and consolidate before planning the next move.

  Caesar was the first of the three to look up as Furius cleared his throat noisily. "Yes, tribune?"

  Furius gestured to the scout to step forth in front of the general. The Gaul looked extremely nervous. It was not unknown for messengers to suffer at the hands of Caesar for delivering bad news.

  "With respect, general," the man stuttered uneasily, "I bear greetings from Quintus Atius Varus, commander of the…"

  "I know who he is!" snapped Caesar impatiently.

  "Err… the commander regrets to inform the general that terrible winds in the channel last night caused collisions. Err…"

  Caesar pinched the bridge of his nose and held up his hand to silence the man. The scout paused, looking nervous. "What is the damage?"

  "Sir, the ships were riding at anchor out…"

  "What is the damage?" the general repeated, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. Furius could quite imagine what was going through the general's mind. Almost exactly the same thing had happened the previous year and had wrecked the fleet, almost endangering their chances of returning to Gaul. The scout swallowed.

  "Commander Varus has confirmed forty two ships lost and only five remain undamaged."

  Caesar trembled, just once, and even Furius found that he had taken an involuntary step back. "This is unacceptable. Why were the ships not beached?"

  The scout was now visibly shaking and Priscus and Cicero had subtly taken a step back to allow the general a little room. As the silence in lack of a reply became oppressive, Priscus sighed.

  "With all respect, general, the only man with any real experience in this sort of thing is Brutus, and he's back in Gaul commanding the Eighth. No one in authority had given the order."

  Silently, Furius allocated blame to the general himself, who had moved off into a hasty night time march and assault without securing the beach head first. Beaching the fleet had clearly been the general's order to give, but who would dare challenge Caesar. He wondered how Varus would fare as a result. There was little doubt that culpability would end with the senior man left in charge.

  "Send out the scouts and recall the legions" Caesar barked at no one in particular. "We return to the coast to assess the damage and rebuild the fleet!"

  As men scurried around to carry out the instructions, Priscus found himself watching the general trembling and wondered if this was how Fronto generally felt?

  Britannia was clearly cursed. And this was only the opening fight of a campaign!

  Chapter Seven

  SEXTILIS

  It was an impromptu gathering in that there were no musicians or poetry recitals or other trivial patrician ephemera, no two weeks of ladies planning what to wear or having the house moved around to make it 'just right'. Fronto glanced around the room and noted with a strategist's eye just how carefully Lucilia and Faleria had planned the seating. The pair of them next to one another and directly opposite Fronto, where they could watch his every move, make subtle motions and mouth words to him easily. Where they could best control him. Balbus and Galronus next to them on either side, where Faleria could rein her husband-to-be in at any time and Lucilia could guide her father's moods as she was often able. And next to Fronto? Galba and Rufus - two people who he respected and liked, but who owed him nothing and were unlikely to take his side automatically. It was as well planned as any battlefield he had ever seen.

  He had not had a declaration of war - no blooded javelin jammed in the floor as he slept - but it had the feel of the girls preparing to take him on in battle.

  The only thing that reassured him just a little was the fact that none of the other male guests looked particularly comfortable or sure of themselves either. Clearly none of them had been enlightened any more than Fronto.

  Posco stood by the door as the household staff brought in the drinks - Fronto noted a distinct lack of wine; just fruit juice - and platters of cold meats and simple delicacies. Once they had delivered their wares they shuffled back out quickly, Posco bowing once and then, pulling the door closed behind him, leaving the nobles in the triclinium with no attendants. The two less regular visitors raised their eyebrows in surprise at the lack of slaves present.

  "Our apologies to you gentlemen for asking you to join us" Faleria addressed Rufus and Galba directly. "Lucilia and I may need a little advice and support, and our dear Marcus' comrades from the legions seemed the best place to turn."

  Fronto felt a cold stone in his belly. This was about him, just as he had suspected.

  "Marcus?"

  Uh-oh. What now? "Yes?" he replied suspiciously.

 
; Faleria cleared her throat preparing to go in for the attack. "You have spent half a year now moping around Rome, splurging the family's savings on chariot racing, gladiator fights, cheap wine and the like. You wake late and are rarely abed before the moon's apex. Your wife is patient, but not endlessly so, and I have little of that particular virtue left. Mother would have thrown you out of the house in the old days. It is time that you turned your mind to the future."

  "I've had my mind on little else anyway."

  "That seems unlikely. What plans do you have?"

  Fronto sighed and leaned back. "I am torn, dear sister. I miss my command." He held up a calming hand as Faleria narrowed her eyes and started to interrupt. "The Tenth has been my life for nearing a decade, and the Ninth before them. Half my good friends are either still serving out in Gaul or lying under a marker somewhere in a sodden valley. When it's silent and my mind wanders, it wanders back there. But I drew too thick a line beneath my name in Caesar's ledger last autumn. I was right in what I said and possibly in what I did, though, and I'm not sure that I would wish to serve under him again, even if he would have me. But that's the crux of the matter - I fear the general would not accept my service again. And so Gaul is out."

  Balbus and the others nodded seriously. They all had experience with the general, who was not known for his forgiving and kind nature. Even Faleria, who was on good terms with the general's daughter, harboured a glint of steel in her eye - it was a man known to serve Caesar who had taken her and Lucilia captive last year, after all. Whether true culpability lay with Caesar as well, or just with Clodius, the connection drove a wedge between the families.

  Fronto sighed and continued.

  "I suspect that Crassus would welcome me in Syria. It's said that he's building an army to rival that of Caesar in order to head east and squash the Parthians once and for all. He'll want experienced officers and although his son and I don't generally see eye to eye, young Crassus knows my worth. I could probably do well under Crassus in the east as he values useful commodities. The only problem is…"

  "…is that I will not let him go" Lucilia said flatly. "The Parthian deserts are a death sentence for all but the Parthians themselves. Stories abound of Roman subjects found dead along the Euphrates from Parthian incursions. The Republic has not dealt well with Persia and I see no reason for Crassus to achieve where so many others have failed. Even if he does take Parthia, there is a high likelihood that half his army will die from the conditions out there. No, I will not have my new husband ripped from my arms and parched to death in an eastern desert. Better he fawn to Caesar and serve in conquered Gaul."

  Fronto gestured at his young wife. "There, as you can see, is the issue with Crassus."

  He sat up straight again. "Pompey is on the verge of making me an offer, I believe, though he keeps dancing around the subject. He's sitting in Rome playing with politics, but I sense he's twitching to take to the field once more - he's just waiting for the time to be right. The problem is: with Caesar conquering Gaul and Britannia and Crassus moving against Parthia, Pompey's in danger of losing his military credibility. He needs a new victory to stay safely ahead of his peers. Once he's decided what to do, I suspect he'll have an offer for me."

  "You'd take up a command with Pompey?" Galba frowned. "You say there's no going back to Caesar now, but you'll really have crossed the line with him if you do that."

  Fronto sank back uneasily. "I'm not sure. The offer would be tempting and might be the only military option open to me, but" he lowered his voice somewhat unnecessarily given the company, "the problem is that I'm not sure I trust Pompey any more than I trust Caesar. Possibly even less."

  "But you are set on a military command?" Rufus asked quietly.

  "I'm not built for anything else really. I can't even conceive of how a man can sit in the senate without losing his temper and beating them all to a pulp. Or falling asleep. Or one and then the other. And I'm no gentleman farmer. No offence, Balbus, but I've no idea what end of a vine goes in the ground and which serves the wine. I'd die of boredom. So any offer of military command is my only real choice, I suspect. Of course, I could just wait and see who's made consul next year and get in with them, maybe get myself a more independent command?"

  Galronus nodded and glanced briefly at Faleria. "I have no urge to rush back to Caesar's command. Either Gaul is settled and now all-but Roman, in which case there is no need for us, or - and I suspect this to be the case - my countrymen will rise in ever greater numbers, in which case I would sooner or later be forced to choose between my old family or my new."

  "Not a happy position" Fronto agreed, trying not to think about Galronus' recall orders that sat safe in Fronto's desk, unseen by their intended recipient. "But perhaps we could still serve on staff somewhere. There's always revolts and incursions in Africa and Numidia, or the old northern Greek states. Sooner or later an army will be sent out there. And there have been stirrings in Noricum, Illyricum and on the borders of Aegyptus with the strange people south of them. Something will come up, and we might get a command with a less political, more objective commander."

  Balbus cleared his throat unhappily. He looked painfully embarrassed as he turned to Fronto. "I don't wish to sound unkind, Marcus, but you're not really suited to the military life anymore, no matter what you might wish."

  Fronto stared in surprise at his friend, who recoiled a little sheepishly.

  "Explain." He said flatly.

  "Well, without dancing too wide around the subject, you're a bit of a mess."

  A dangerous flash of anger passed across Fronto's gaze, but Faleria was nodding. "Quite right. Out of shape. You've put on a lot of weight Marcus, and I hear you wheezing when you come in, having climbed the Aventine."

  "I…"

  "And your knee is weak as anything" Lucilia added. "You can't walk more than a mile or two without needing to sit and rest it."

  "Now listen…"

  "I have to admit that I'm having to walk slowly so you can keep up" Galronus added unhappily.

  "Anyone else? Am I ugly too? Or too old?"

  "Marcus, we're not trying to be mean but you are badly out of shape. You're not the man who went to Gaul five years ago."

  "It's just a bit of extra padding and a weak knee. It can all be put right."

  "Then do it."

  "What?" he turned to stare at Faleria, whose defiant gaze bored into him.

  "You say you can put it right? Do it. Get yourself fit and healthy again. Then you might be able to obtain one of these military commands you so desire. And at least in the meantime it'll give you something to do other than drink, gamble and sleep."

  Galronus was nodding seriously.

  "And you!" Faleria snapped, turning on him and causing the Remi nobleman to blink in surprise. "If you seriously intend to take me to wife, you need to curb your own circus-going habits. Marcus may be fatter than you…"

  "Hey!"

  "… and drink more, but you're in danger of becoming one of those slaves to the races and I have no intention of living my life as a 'circus-widow'."

  "Not fat!" yelled Fronto angrily.

  "Oh be quiet, Marcus."

  "I think perhaps we ought to be going" Rufus said hurriedly, rising from his seat, his eyes meeting an equally uncomfortable Galba. "Time is running away with itself."

  "Sit down" said Faleria forcefully, a deliberate hard smile on her face. "You haven't touched the food yet."

  * * * * *

  The guard at the gate eyed Fronto up and down suspiciously.

  "What you want?"

  "To speak to the owner of the establishment."

  "Who you?"

  "My name is Marcus Falerius Fronto. Now please either fetch, or escort me to, the lanista."

  The guard ran his tongue around misshapen yellow teeth and finally shrugged, unlocking the gate and swinging it open. Fronto stepped inside, his gaze following the sounds of furious combat off to the left, where the gladiators of the school could be
seen behind the training area's surround - a solid wall to waist height, with a barrier of iron bars driven in above, creating a barrier some fifteen feet high, with spikes facing inward at the top. Twenty or more men hammered at the palus or moved through a series of planned strikes and parries on the far side. To one end a huge, shaven headed creature was lifting a roof beam with one of his counterparts hanging from each end, the strain showing on his face but not stopping him lifting it past his head.

  Despite his reservations and his denial of how bad he had let his fitness level become, Fronto suddenly felt tremendously old, weak, fat and lazy watching the men beyond the bars. Turning his attention back to the guard, who'd now locked the gate once more, he strode across the paved courtyard to the house attached. The sweaty, filthy guard passed him off at the door to a house slave - probably a eunuch - in a green tunic, who made motions to follow, unable to address Fronto due to his lack of a tongue.

  Fronto followed through the overly-opulent house that reeked of overcompensation for a low birth, and entered the tablinum, where he was bade to sit and offered wine. He smiled his acceptance, but changed his mind at the last moment and waved the jug away.

  For a while he sat alone in the office, his gaze taking in the gaudy decoration and wondering if this was what most people thought the older patrician families did with their houses. So much gold and crimson it was actually quite painful to look at - as though the legendary King Midas had exploded in the centre.

  Finally, as he was beginning to become restless, Lucius Tubero, owner of the house and the fourth-most successful lanista in Rome, entered with a warm smile and a low, sweeping bow. Of course, there were only four lanistas in Rome.

  "Master Falerius, it is an honour to extend to you the welcome of the house of Tubero. Will you take food or wine?"