Fronto nodded again. What was Antonius’ intention?
Horns and whistles sounded from the Pompeian ships and the group of a dozen triremes, now fully prepared and in formation, began to surge forwards, aiming for the ragtag flotilla.
Then, almost as one, like some great school of dark brown fish, Antonius’ fleet tacked sharply to the left. In moments the fleet was no longer aiming for the shore, but had swung round and begun to plough north, parallel with the coast.
‘What is he doing?’ Calenus murmured.
‘He has clearly decided, very sensibly, that he cannot get through,’ Sulla replied.
‘But he must have known that before with no warships. So why come so close to engaging the triremes?’
Caesar smiled. ‘Because he needed to get our attention. He needed us to know he was here, and where he’s going. He’s beckoning to us. Something has happened that has robbed him of his military escort, but he has men and needs to join up with us. He cannot land here, so he needs us to move to wherever he can land safely.’
Fronto pursed his lips. It made sense, but it also opened up a whole new danger.
‘Caesar, if we break camp and run to meet Antonius, we lose the advantage of the Apsus. Pompey will be able to follow us with impunity. And Antonius will not be able to land anywhere between here and Dyrrachium, because of the blockade.’
Sulla nodded his agreement. ‘He will have to land somewhere north of Dyrrachium, and if we go to meet him, we allow Pompey access to the place. I don’t think we can afford to let the man have Dyrrachium. It’s too strong and well supplied.’
Caesar drummed fingers on his arms as he watched the allied ships disappearing off to the north. ‘I take your point, and you’re quite right, but answer me this: how long can we last in our current situation?’
‘Not more than a month for sure,’ Calenus conceded.
‘Antonius will land and come south to us,’ Sulla put in.
Caesar’s drumming fingers became a touch more frantic, a sign that he was considering a path and working through all possibilities.
‘If we stay here and Antonius does not come for us, we begin to starve until Pompey decides we are weak enough to make pressing across the river viable. If we stay here and Antonius does come south with adequate troops, we will have a decision to make. Do we attack a superior force across the river? We will essentially be in the unenviable position in which Pompey has been thus far. Or do we wait it out, but then we will starve twice as fast with a larger army.’
The general huffed irritably. ‘If we leave this strong position, we cannot afford to pass Dyrrachium and allow Pompey the city. So we still will not meet up with Antonius. But that city is a veritable granary waiting to be plundered. I think the decision is not a hard one. Here, we will inevitably fail. To the north, we have a chance. We break camp and move the army north. With luck, Antonius will be coming south and we can combine the armies. Then we will be a force Pompey might not want to face. And north of Dyrrachium we have allies. We can perhaps improve out supply situation.’
‘Antonius will need to know. It is no good him fortifying a beach and waiting for us,’ Sulla said.
Caesar nodded. ‘Galronus and Fronto? Take a hundred horse and ride ahead. Find Antonius and bring him south to meet us.’
* * *
Fronto and Galronus thundered across the giving turf, a hundred Gallic auxiliaries at their rear. Somewhere far behind, Caesar and the army would be pressing north. They would have the advantage of speed, for they could simply break camp and move en-masse, while Pompey, in pursuit, would need to cross the Apsus to follow. But they would still need to stop and draw the line of defence somewhere between Pompey and Dyrrachium.
The spring sunshine held more warmth every day, now, and had the circumstances been somewhat different, it could have been a glorious day. Away to their left the low waves of the sea crashed against the clear, sandy beach. Ahead, north-west, the heavy walls of Dyrrachium sat on a promontory, daring them to come too close. They were at sufficient distance that they could not see the artillery atop the city’s towers, but Fronto was in no doubt that they were there, and that the defenders would have no compunction in loosing great deadly iron bolts at the riders if they came anywhere near the walls. Any cavalry this close had to be Caesar’s, after all.
They had covered the thirty miles from the Apsus to Dyrrachium in record time, though the light was beginning to fade, and soon dusk would fall.
‘Do we make camp for the night when it gets dark, sir?’ asked a decurion, riding forwards to join the two officers. Galronus looked to Fronto for an answer.
‘No,’ the legate replied. ‘We ride through the night. Whenever we need to stop and rest the horses we’ll do so, and the men can tuck into their rations then, but we’re not making camp. Short breaks only. Combining the armies before Pompey catches up is of prime importance. If Pompey catches Caesar and decides to strike before we return, we might be returning to a cemetery rather than an army.’
The decurion saluted and dropped back once more.
Although they skirted the great bastion of Pompey’s power at a good distance and remained solidly out of artillery range, Fronto breathed a sigh of relief once they were safely past that city and riding on north. On the understanding that wherever Antonius had reached Illyricum, it had to be on the coastline, they veered west once more and continued along the shore. A little north of the city they broke their ride for an hour by a small and easily crossable river. While the men ate a light meal of bread and salted meat, the horses were allowed to graze and rest and drink from the clear waters of the river. Then, with complaint from both men and beasts, and a whispered apology from Fronto to poor, ageing Bucephalus, they were off once more.
The light gave way early to an indigo evening, clouds rolling in across the sea and blanketing the world. They rode on into the darkness, skirting a wide, marshy area, and had another break perhaps fifteen miles from their last position in the lee of a range of high hills and bare peaks that cut across their path from the east down to the sea. As the men rested and the horses recovered once again, Fronto and Galronus lit a small oil lamp and perused their small map.
‘There are several passes through these hills,’ Fronto noted, stabbing the vellum with a finger. ‘The only one that’s suitable for carts is way inland. The two this end of the spur are an unknown quantity. They’re certainly navigable on foot. It’s a gamble for cavalry. Do we trust to them or delay and take a sweep inland for the sensible route?’
Galronus peered at the map. ‘Inland.’
‘You’re sure? I’d hate to miss Antonius’ landing site.’
‘These peaks go right down to the sea. Antonius couldn’t land there. And the horses are close to exhaustion. You’ve asked a lot of them. Testing them on a poor pass through there is asking for disaster. Take them the lower, easier route.’
Fronto nodded. Speed was important, but they would be entirely unstuck if they tried one of the passes and discovered it was unsuitable for the horses. He looked back down at the map. ‘According to this, there’s a lot of marshland along the coast north of the hills. That’s as unsuitable for Antonius’ landing as the hills are. We might as well stay inland until we reach Lissus, another fifteen miles north. They still support Pompey, but it may be that Antonius has chosen Lissus as a landing place. With the men he has he could probably overcome the town and secure a safe port. Bit of a gamble, but then Antonius has always been a gambler.’
‘And what do we do at Lissus if he’s not there?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘There’s only a hundred of us. We give it a wide berth, then come back to the coast and hope to see ships and men to the north.’
This time they allowed two hours for the horses, which were already showing signs of fatigue and would not manage a great deal more without a proper rest. Fronto constantly returned to the map in worry and frustration, and it came as something of a relief once they mounted up and set off north again.
He tutted and fretted constantly at the detour and extra delay as they moved northeast and made for the pass that carried the main road north to Lissus. By the time they ascended to the height of the pass, the sun was beginning to make its presence felt in the form of a pinky-orange glow to the east. Once they reached the flat land again and the terrain opened up into grassy plains, they rested the horses once more. As the animals roved across the turf recovering from their latest ordeal, the men broke their fast with the last of their rations.
‘Got to find him soon or we’ll have to look for more provisions,’ Fronto grumbled.
‘Got to find him soon or you’ll have killed the horses,’ Galronus corrected him, almost in admonishment.
By the time they mounted and set off once again, the sun had risen and the world had begun to warm. This time they followed the road, making the going considerably easier, yet the horsemen set the pace slower than Fronto had expected, saving the horses as much as possible. They angled slightly west of north with the highway and continued the seemingly endless trek. Despite the unsuitable terrain for a landing, Fronto constantly worried that they’d passed Antonius somewhere. They were now close to sixty miles north of the Apsus, and thirty north of Dyrrachium.
The city of Lissus appeared on the horizon in the mid to late morning, walls gleaming in the sun. After some time the road forked, and they paused, examining the milestone standing there. The right hand road led to the city, which clung to a low slope below the hills, watching over the coast. The left veered off towards the sea, marked for a place called Nymphaeum three miles beyond. A line of blue hills ahead gradually descended to the left and must signal the point where the Illyrian coast turned northwest.
‘Left?’ Galronus asked quietly.
Fronto nodded. ‘Left.’
They rode on, slower than ever now, horses beginning to plod and complain. After a short time, Galronus cleared his throat. ‘What is that? Some kind of plantation?’
Fronto frowned and followed his gesture. His eyes fell upon the slope above the road, which separated them from the route to the city of Lissus. A small thicket of bare spires rose from the otherwise-open grass. He squinted, and his lip curled in disgust.
‘Crucifixions. Gods above and below.’
He called a halt to the unit and he and Galronus climbed the slope to the grisly thicket. There was little doubt as to who they were. Some of them wore the blue tunics of sailors, and others were wearing legionary kit. They stank of death and of faeces, but also of brine. Men who had been at sea for days before their execution.
‘How many?’
‘More than a hundred,’ Galronus replied.
Fronto nodded. ‘Nearer twice that number.’ He turned and peered down the slope. From here he could see the water, and it did not take long to spot the wreckage. Two ships had sunk close enough to the shore that their skeletons were still visible.
‘Two ships. That means there are more. We have to hope these two just fell foul of someone and that they’re not an indicator of what happened to the whole army.’
Unable to do anything about the mass execution right now, Fronto and his friend turned their back on the horrible display clearly set up by the Pompeian garrison of Lissus. They returned to the horses below and began the slow plod onwards. To the west of the road lay marshy land and large pools and small lakes until the soft, giving shoreline. To the right there were repeated thickets and ridges of green.
Fronto had become so used to the almost hypnotic sound of four hundred hooves on packed earth or gravel, and it took precious moments for him to hear the new sound over the horses. He suddenly sat bolt upright in the saddle.
‘Did you hear that?’
‘What?’ Galronus looked around as though he might see the sound.
‘There it is again,’ Fronto said. ‘Shouting.’
And now they all heard it. Desperate calls in Latin. Then the tell-tale shrill blast of a centurion’s whistle. The lesser sounds of iron on bronze and on wood were there, beneath the shouting.
‘Come on,’ Fronto shouted. ‘Form up for battle.’ He turned to Galronus. ‘You’re the cavalry man. Command.’
‘We don’t know who they are,’ the Remi muttered.
‘If anyone around here is fighting Romans, I’d be willing to put money on finding some of our men there.’
Galronus nodded and began issuing orders to his riders. The decurions led their men out into a wide formation with riders forwards at the periphery, like a large crescent. At a final command they moved. The terrain here was good for the horsemen, and despite the weariness of both men and riders, they moved apace to the east, climbing the gentle slope from the road. They crested the low rise and took in the situation in an instant.
Perhaps two or three centuries of legionaries were tightly packed in the contra equitas formation, shields raised on two tiers with the upper slanted to provide protection from spears, while their own pila jutted out like the spines of a hedgehog between the shields, keeping the nervous horses of their attackers away. The shields of the legionaries bore the familiar golden bull emblem of Caesar, while their attackers were probably Illyrian, lightly armoured and bearing spears, their tunics a mass of drab colours, their shields either unpainted or bearing complex designs – those who had one, anyway. A single Roman rider sat at the higher slope gesturing with a hand, directing the attack, a native beside him with a horn blasting out the signals.
Even as Galronus and the rest appeared on the scene, the horsemen made a try for the legionary formation. The bodies scattered about, mostly in russet tunics and chain armour, told Fronto that this was far from the first attack, though likely the horsemen’s clear success early on had been down to the legionaries not having managed to form up in time. Fronto watched as the Illyrians closed on the wall of shields and pila. They were far from stupid. No horse willingly attacks a hedge of spears, but the enemy riders had come in two waves. The first cast their short spears at the legionaries, then peeled off and allowed the second wave to charge. The spears mostly glanced off shields or dug into earth, but a few found targets in the narrow gaps between shields, and the damage to the formation could have been their undoing. Gaps opened up, and the second wave made for them, planning to exploit them. If the enemy riders got in through the wall of shields things would go badly for the Caesarians, especially since the Illyrians numbered perhaps twice as many. Fortunately, whoever was commanding the legionaries was worth his pay, and the gaps were closed up almost as fast as they opened. The result was that the second wave was robbed of the weakness and was forced to abandon their charge and veer off.
‘Some of them have lost their spears now,’ Galronus bellowed. ‘Concentrate on the ones still bearing a spear. Enfold them and take them down, closing the noose on twenty.’
What half that meant was a mystery to Fronto, so he ignored it, and, reasoning that he might cock up the Remi’s plan, instead made for the Roman officer on the horse, ripping his blade from its scabbard as he did so.
‘For Caesar!’ he bellowed as he raced for the officer. The call was echoed by the beleaguered legionaries, given extra heart and new strength by the sudden appearance of allied cavalry.
The officer turned, his eyes widening at the sight of Fronto racing towards him.
‘Retreat,’ he bellowed. ‘Back to the city!’
And with that, he turned and kicked his horse into life, pounding away across the turf towards Lissus. Fronto made to chase him down, but the man’s horse was fresh, while Bucephalus was broken, and the big black steed could do little more than canter a few paces and then slow. The same story was evident across the fight. The musician honked a call on his horn, then turned and raced off after his commander. The Illyrians broke off the fight and thundered away, Galronus’ horsemen made a valiant attempt to catch a few before they fled, but the difference between fresh mounts and exhausted ones was clear, and soon the enemy were out of sight, hurtling back to the safety of their walls.
Fronto and Galronus walked their beasts over towards the legionaries, who were wearily breaking formation.
‘Thank the gods,’ said a scarred centurion with feeling as he stepped out from the ranks of men.
‘Good day to you,’ Fronto grinned. ‘Nice morning for a little exercise, eh?’
Whatever the veteran centurion might have wanted to say to such levity, he was professional enough to keep to himself, and simply saluted. ‘Your timing is impeccable, sir. My men are exhausted and we couldn’t have held them off much longer.’
‘How in Hades do you come to be here?’ Fronto said. ‘And do you know who the lot hanging on the crosses back there are?’
The man nodded. ‘We were separated from the fleet last evening, sir. The sea swells were dreadful and we were driven in to the coast. The locals found us on the beach. The complements of both ships were given the chance to surrender. Those other lads? They were just boys. New recruits. They panicked and dropped their weapons. Look what happened to ‘em. We didn’t. We made a run for it. For a while we thought they were leaving us alone, but once they’d secured the youngsters they came after us. Shame. An hour longer and we’d have got there.’
Fronto frowned. ‘Got where?’
‘To the rest of the fleet,’ the centurion said as though Fronto were an idiot, then he turned and pointed. Fronto followed his gesture and stared. They had been so busy locked on the fight and enemy fleeing east that he’d not yet turned and looked west or north.
Perhaps two miles away, around the curve of the shore, sat a fishing village, or small town, with an extensive system of jetties and docks. There, bobbing in the water were perhaps half a dozen ships, but the green land to the west of there seethed with men and tents. The legions had arrived in Illyricum.
Fronto exhaled at last.
Chapter 6
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 8
