Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules) (6 page)

“I fear you forget your place, tribune…”

Gallus, senior tribune of the Ninth, ground his teeth, irked at such a rebuke from the commander of a different legion. A complaint to legate Rufus would be no use; Rufus was as powerless as he to put the influential Crassus in his place.

“I mean no disrespect, sir…”

Somewhere deep within, Gallus laughed at his own words.

“…It’s just that the Andes have been nothing but accommodating and helpful. Given that we have effectively displaced them and tithed their stores during a fairly harsh winter, I feel we should be rewarding them, rather than punishing them. Perhaps we can send to Caesar and request that extra supplies be sent up from Narbonensis?”

Crassus swept a hand angrily through the air.

“I have conquered Armorica with
one
legion, tribune! Imagine that! While the rest of the army was bogged down with the Belgae, the Seventh
alone
pacified the whole of the north west! Do you think I am about to crawl to Caesar with my tail between my legs and beg for some extra supper?”

Again, Gallus had to bite his tongue. He’d seen first hand the results of Crassus’ conquest. Pacification by near-genocide. The mass burial pits were still visited by weeping relatives all up and down these lands. Still, the winter would soon be over and then his own legate would return, along with the general and the rest of the staff. Things would change then.

“What are your orders, sir?”

Crassus glared at him for some time and finally slid from his chair and stood, reaching out to the table and swiping his crimson cloak from the surface, fastening it around his shoulders.

“Come with me.”

Gallus nodded and, turning, followed the legate out of the headquarters. The air outside was cloying and unpleasant. A fog had settled earlier in the week and seemed to be set in for the duration, lifting only briefly during the height of the day before descending once again to wrap them in its damp embrace as the sun sank. The unpleasant weather was affecting the mood of the army, who had weathered the crisp cold winter reasonably well, but this damp fog was a whole different matter. It soaked into the clothes and made even the flesh feel soggy and cold, it cut down visibility and shut out the welcome gaze of the sun.

The headquarters had been converted from the house of the Andean chief at Vindunum during the Seventh’s campaign last year. Indeed, the Seventh and their allied legions occupied the entire Gallic oppidum and the surrounding territory on this side of the river, the surviving population having been evicted to the far bank where they had set up makeshift huts to survive the winter. The ‘Pax Romana' as demonstrated by the great Crassus.

Still grinding his teeth, Gallus strode out into the street behind the young commander as he glanced left and right. There were the standard legionary guards on duty outside the headquarters, as well as the granary and other stores, but here in the hub of Roman command, the higher proportion of the sparse figures visible bore the crests and plumes of officers.

“You!”

Gallus frowned as Crassus gestured to two tribunes standing huddled against the cold and studying a wax tablet. The tribunes looked up and Gallus vaguely recognised them from meetings and dice games. Men of the Eleventh, if he remembered correctly.

The two men exchanged anxious glances and, as they fell into step with Gallus at the legate’s heel, they looked around at him questioningly. Gallus shook his head and made a face suggesting they should stay quiet.

The three tribunes pulled their cloaks tighter around them against the numbing fog and traipsed on down the street toward the former centre of the oppidum. As they entered the main square, once more Crassus waved an arm at a man with a tribune’s plume.

“Terrasidius? Join us.”

The tribune, one of the junior, or ‘angusticlavius’ tribunes of the Seventh, turned and came to attention, saluting, before striding toward them. As the five men converged, Crassus gestured to one of the buildings around the square, converted for use as an office for the clerks of the various legions and the camp prefect, nominally Priscus, ex-primus pilus of the Tenth, but who was convalescing in Rome with his commander during the winter.

The small group approached and Terrasidius stepped out ahead to open the door and stand aside politely until the others had entered, closing it behind him as he joined them. This building had clearly been a shop or a tavern before being commandeered by the Seventh. Three clerks worked studiously at desks in the large open room.

“Find something to do outside” Crassus said flatly.

The clerks looked up in alarm and saluted hurriedly before gathering their tablets and styluses in their arms and leaving the room in haste, making their way out of the front door and into the damp, depressing square outside.

“Right.”

Crassus turned to the four tribunes as he leaned back against a desk and folded his arms.

“Tribune Gallus here informs me that we are being too harsh on the Andes here; that we cannot demand any more grain or supplies from them or we may push them into open revolt.”

Gallus’ teeth continued to grind in irritation but, as the other three officers glanced across at him, he noted the sympathy and understanding in their eyes.

“So” the legate continued circling his neck to the sound of bones clicking. “What are the options?”

He fell silent, but none of the tribunes fell into the trap. Crassus nodded to himself.

“One: we banish the Andes altogether and send them to leech off one of the other tribes in this benighted land, while we commandeer their remaining stocks. Certainly the easiest option, and their own stores should see the army through until spring, when we will move again.”

Gallus noted the almost despairing looks on his peers and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying desperately not to comment.

“Two: We send to Narbonensis or Cisalpine Gaul in Caesar’s name for extra supplies. Of course, it would be more than a month before anything gets to us and we run the risk or putting forth the appearance that the better part of seven of Rome’s elite legions cannot even gather enough supplies to keep themselves fed.”

He peered at the tribunes and allowed his gaze to rest on Gallus.

“Or three: we extend our demands to other tribes. At the risk of testing tribune Gallus’ ‘bend-or-break’ theory, we procure every ounce of provision we need from the various tribes we have conquered.”

“It has been a harsh and freezing winter, legate. Most of the tribes will be in a similar state. I’m not at all sure how much they will be able to spare. Back down on the coast of the Mare Nostrum, however, where it’s been warmer…”

His voice tailed off and he fell uncomfortably silent.

“Since the lot of you seem to be so concerned about the tender feelings of these pointless barbarians, it strikes me that I could hardly find any better men to send.”

Straightening, he strode across to the wall, where a map was pinned to the timber, giving the locations of the local tribes and settlements, along with the disposition of the various scouts and spies. He examined the map for some time while the tribunes watched unhappily. Finally, he tapped his fingers on the vellum.

“There you go: Gallus, you’ll take a detachment of cavalry as a bodyguard and go to the Curiosolitae. Their capitol is some turd hole near the north coast. We checked it out briefly last year and it was hardly worth our attention, but there’s good farmland around them. You should be able to get fully half of what we need from them. I would suggest you threaten them with the heel of the Roman boot, but you can use your charm if you prefer.”

Ignoring the rising colour in Gallus’ face, he turned to the others, his finger sliding down the map and coming to rest on the jagged lines of the southern coast of the peninsula.

“The Venati are somewhat fractious and spread out and will be more difficult to deal with. We’re not even sure where their centre is, so you two” he gestured at Velanius and Silius, “will need to take two turmae of cavalry and go find them and draw supplies from them. I’m not expecting them to have much corn but, from what I read, they’re fishers, so you may be able to procure us stocks of seafood.”

Lastly, his finger strayed up and right, deeper inland and back toward better-known territory and came to rest somewhere around forty or fifty miles north of Vindunum.

“Terrasidius? You can take a detachment to the Esubii. They should be nice and easy to deal with and will have surplus corn stocks if I’m not mistaken.”

The legate fell quiet, still regarding the map, his chin cupped in a hand. The tribunes stood in uncomfortable silence, shuffling their feet. After a pregnant pause, Crassus turned, an expression of feigned surprise on his face.

“Are you still here?”

Without waiting for further admonishment, the tribunes turned and made their way out of the building and out of sight of the legate. As they left the relative comfort of the low, dark interior and stepped out into the grey cloth of mist, they kept walking until they were at the far side of the square and safely out of earshot of both the office window and any other human being.

“Arsehole!”

The other three turned in surprise at Gallus’ outburst, but understanding quickly claimed their expressions.

“He really has
no
idea just how much of the time we spend trying to smooth over relations with the Gauls after he wanders around Armorica kicking them out of the way. It’s almost as though he
wants
them to revolt.”

Velanius nodded unhappily.

“The Venati are an argumentative bunch. They fight for fun in their village squares; I’ve seen it – bare knuckle fighting until they’re lying comatose just to work up an appetite for dinner. I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to approach them and broach the idea that they should give us a sizeable chunk of their fish. I have a horrible feeling about this.”

Gallus’ grim expression revealed his own thoughts on the matter quite clearly. He turned and rounded on Terrasidius.

“See how he favours his own legion? Cushy job you got there, asking for a handout from a friendly tribe that’s almost drowning in excess corn.”

The tribune from the Seventh shrugged.

“You can call it favour if you like and, yes I get the easy tribe, but when we start moving in spring, you’ll head back to your own legates and get on with it. I’ll still be wandering around behind my illustrious leader, trying to remove the stick from his arse!”

Gallus stared at the tribune for a moment and burst out laughing.

“Fair enough. He won’t be expecting us to leave until the morning. Too late in the day to set out now. Anyone else here fancy a drink? There’s two taverns in this shithole that they left in service, and I know which one doesn’t spit in the beer for Romans!”

The three men nodded, relieved to have their thoughts turned from the task ahead, and strode off toward the tavern with its friendly warmth.

* * * * *

“This had better be the right place; I’m truly sick of getting the run-around with these people.”

Tribune Velanius nodded miserably, shrinking deeper into the crimson wool cloak as his horse plodded slowly through the bone-soaking drizzle.

“You know how some sailors say that the seas go on to the north and west to the end of the world and then irrigate the Elysian fields?”

Silius eyed him suspiciously.

“Yes. You do know you can’t irrigate
anything
with sea water?”

“Well you can quite bloody believe it! The further north we get from Rome the wetter, colder and more miserable it gets. If it weren’t for all the cliffs and rocks, I’d say it would be hard to tell where the land ends and the sea begins in this place.”

“Sir” the trooper said, giving a half bow in the saddle, “there’s a sizeable settlement up ahead on a spur of rock above the sea. It’s a lot bigger than any of the other villages we’ve seen. I think we’ve found our town.”

“Good. Form up an honour guard. Let’s do this properly.”

As the cavalry settled into lines of twelve men to either side with a small van- and rear-guard, the two tribunes held their breath as they approached the crest of the hill. They still had no idea how they would go about their mission, but the time seemed finally to be upon them when they would have to decide.

Slowly they rode to the top of the hill in a stately procession. Beyond, the open countryside, dotted with copses, stretched out, swooping down and then up to the now all-too-familiar line of jagged cliffs and coves that formed the coast of north western Gaul. In the centre of the view, a headland stood proud, rising higher than those to either side. Ramparts protected the landward side, while cliffs formed the defence of the rest, with jagged rocks and heaving seas below. Within the walls, a typical Gaulish town lay, squat and grey-brown with random, curving streets. Smoke rose from a multitude of roofs, warming the occupants and warding off the chill rain.