Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War

by S. J. A. Turney

Near Dyrrachium, Aprilis 48 BC

  The return journey from Nymphaeum had not been as fast as Fronto would have liked, though he could understand why. Necessity demanded care, and even the impulsive Marcus Antonius was playing a safe game at the moment. Not all the army had come across with him, and so the landing site had needed to be secured, which had, of course, involved capturing the city of Lissus.

  Once the fleet was secure, they had left a small garrison and taken the bulk of the newly-arrived forces and the supplies they’d brought and began the slow trek south. Couriers had been sent ahead with spare horses to apprise Caesar of their imminent arrival, and to pinpoint the current location of the allied camp. So slow was the business of moving a fully equipped and provisioned army, that the couriers returned before they had even come south of Dyrrachium.

  Still, at last they were here. They had passed that great coastal bastion of Pompey’s power with care and plenty of distance. This might be a strong army, but there was no point in tempting ill fortune, regardless. Finally, stomping through the flat coastal lands south of Dyrrachium, they had spotted the first lines of pickets, set up to be certain there would be no sortie from the city into the army’s unsuspecting rear. It had taken no watchwords or security to pass the pickets, not with the great general Marcus Antonius at the fore and legion after legion bearing Caesar’s bull emblem. Rather than be met with suspicion, they were met with endless relief and enthusiasm. Tired and worried soldiers held out jars of wine that were hard won and jealously guarded, yet given freely to the men who had come to turn things around and save them from ongoing hardship.

  It was fascinating to see what had happened in the few short days since Fronto and Galronus had left on their ride north. Caesar still held Pompey at bay, remarkably, still keeping him away from Dyrrachium. The army had settled in a perfect flat area, with ample ground for many legions to camp, and had already begin to fortify in earnest. They had built a camp large enough to accommodate more than twice the number building it, in anticipation of the rest of the army joining them, and a heavy embankment and palisade with towers that looked so reminiscent of those dreadful days at Alesia stretched from the camp down to the sea, where a small secure harbour had been created, even though nothing could come in or go out without passing through that distant cordon of enemy triremes.

  The land seethed with men. No sign of the enemy, though from the reports the couriers had brought back, Pompey’s army was encamped on a hill called Petra, some miles to the south, close to the sea. Had there not been light cloud and an odd haze to the air, they might well be visible from here, after all.

  As the relief force neared the camp’s nearest gate of many, Antonius distributed orders to the various officers and he, Fronto and Galronus rode on ahead with just a small cavalry escort. The weary soldiers of the invading army downed their tools or platters and cheered as the long-anticipated general rode past.

  ‘Better hope you can be what they want,’ Fronto muttered. ‘They’re clearly pinning all their hopes on your arrival.’

  ‘Shows what the ordinary man knows,’ Antonius snorted. ‘They have Caesar in their camp. A man who can turn a disaster into a miracle, and they look elsewhere. He may have been waiting for me for safety, Fronto, but you know as well as I that the man has the luck of his progenitor goddess. He could walk out of this camp with a plank of wood, a wheel of cheese and three men and in days Pompey would be fighting for his life.’

  Fronto rolled his eyes, but held his reply in. That may have been exaggeration and hyperbole, but it was based on a core of truth. Something about Caesar kept him winning, no matter what odds were thrown against him. Gods, but Fronto himself had set his personal flag against Caesar more than once, and yet here he was fighting for the man yet again. Coming back like a faithful hound. It was ridiculous, really.

  Caesar’s command tent was a seething hotspot. Officers were gathered around in knots outside, pointing, arguing, checking off lists and shouting at centurions, who would then run back to their units to shout at their men. Clerks rushed in and out of the huge tent in a constant flow and counter-flow. Aulus Hirtius, staff officer and Caesar’s favourite administrator, stood by the door, directing the flow of wordsmiths by some arcane plan. Soldiers were everywhere.

  The four riders dismounted and instantly an equisio was there to take the mounts, and two of Aulus Ingenuus’ bodyguard, recognising the four important officers, created a passageway through the chaos for them to reach the central structure.

  Fronto tried to fall back and let Antonius take the lead, but the flat-faced, curly-haired officer laughed and slowed similarly, keeping Fronto to the fore. They entered the tent and had to pause to adjust their eyesight to the gloom within.

  The chaos continued inside, with scribes and officers all over the place. Caesar was seated on his curule chair behind a table covered in maps, lists and charts. He looked tired, but more alive and alert than usual, and he rose and slapped both hands flat on the table as he noticed the new arrivals.

  ‘Thank all the gods, Marcus.’ He turned and swept a hand expansively around the room.

  ‘Out, all of you. If it can wait, go and eat. If it cannot, Hirtius will help.’

  The room cleared in moments, sweating clerks hurrying past the officers with heads bowed. Calenus, to whom the rule seemingly did not apply, remained standing in the corner, a look of utmost relief on his face.

  ‘We’ve directed the new arrivals to appropriate camping spots,’ Antonius said, then by way of greeting, ‘and it’s good to see you, Gaius.’

  Caesar laughed. ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘You first. Your news is probably more important.’

  Caesar shook his head. ‘I doubt it. In a nutshell, the coastal barrage is still in place, though weaker than initially. We have sufficient supplies for the men we already have for perhaps ten more days, and even then on reduced rations. We go down to emergency rations shortly to preserve what we have. The local farmland has yielded all it can, since Pompey’s men had been reaping it and storing it in Dyrrachium for months. We managed to secure some supplies from Apollonia, but a good proportion of that had to remain in the city for the garrison and the population. We need to be seen as saviours, not invaders, and I cannot afford to have them turn against me once more because we have starved them to feed the soldiers. We cannot venture too far inland, for Pompey’s reserves are out there somewhere, including legions marching under Scipio from Syria. We can hardly afford to have foraging units bump into enemy legions. And, of course, north of here you know the situation. We managed to stay nicely ahead of Pompey and keep him out of Dyrrachium. Even with our relative strengths, he seems reluctant to commit. If I were to be charitable, I might think that he still hoped to avoid the coming conflict, but I think we all know that he is just trying to be certain of the least costly victory.’

  The officers nodded. ‘So where is he? This place called Petra?’ Antonius asked.

  Caesar looked across at Calenus and nodded. The senior staff officer cleared his throat. ‘We’ve tentatively scouted Petra and decided that the man knows what he’s about. Taking him off that hill would be like trying another Gergovia. The man is well positioned and well defended. His wagons continue to roll in from the east, and now he is also supplied by ship. His lowest auxiliary is eating more than our officers, and has a better wine ration, too. The man can probably sit there and watch us gradually fade away unless you have good news for us?’

  All eyes turned to Antonius, who looked up suddenly from where he’d been helping himself to a wine jug. ‘Fronto…’

  ‘No, this story is yours. I’ll take the wine.’

  Antonius noted the sly smile on Caesar’s face and reluctantly handed the wine to Fronto. Calenus made a snorting noise. As Fronto poured himself a much-desired cup of wine, Antonius rolled his shoulders.

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Currently we have time, though if it’s too long we might all starve, so skip the oratory,’ Cae
sar smiled.

  Antonius rolled his eyes. ‘Well, we reached Brundisium without incident. A few new ships had been found but not enough to offset those we’d already lost. We took the fleet we had into port and began to put out calls for more vessels but the next thing we know, some pig’s pizzle called Libo turns up. Cunning little bastard sailed in at night, took out our watchmen and occupied the island just outside Brundisium. Filled the damn place with missile troops and kept his military ships there, ready to shaft us up the out-pipe if we decided to try set sail. You know how few military escort vessels we had. So we were effectively blockaded into Brundisium.’

  Caesar sighed. ‘How shrewd. Libo reduces the need for a huge cordon of ships in Illyricum by concentrating on the source and stopping you putting to sea to join us.’

  ‘Precisely. And his plan was good. Kept us bent over and saying yes please for a while. Had to find a way to break him. In the end I pulled the old false retreat. Never done it at sea before, but I had good men, and they translated land tactics to ships surprisingly well. We sent a couple of ships out to look like they were making a break one morning. This Libo dick noticed and sent heavy ships after them. They backwatered and drew Libo’s ships into the harbour. Thing is: we’d spent half the night sending missile units out to the shorelines and other islands. The poor bastards sailed straight into a storm of iron. Five quadriremes in the deepest of shit. We sank two and captured one. The other two limped back out in a hurry. Seems they were the backbone of his fleet. Next morning, he turned tail and sailed away with that same tail between his legs. No idea where he went but we’ve not seen a sign of him since.’

  Caesar frowned. ‘So you still have your warships, and one more besides? Why were they not with you when you neared the coast close to us then?’

  Antonius shrugged. ‘I only brought the fastest ships to the shore to show you we were here and where we were going. The warships stayed out to sea with the rest and met us north of Dyrrachium.’

  ‘So you’re all here?’

  Antonius shook his head. ‘A little more than half, I’d say. We were just too short of ships. Once we’d kicked Libo back out to sea, we brought everyone we could fit. Came close enough for you to see what we were doing, then cut out north, outrunning the blockade ships. We made sure to move north of the current blockade and landed just north of Lissus.’

  Fronto coughed and Antonius shot him a sour look.

  ‘Almost all of us. The weather was bad and the sea really shitty. Two ships were driven off course and hit Lissus. They tried to surrender. The local commander crucified half of them. The other half were fighting for their lives when Fronto and this Gallic lunatic turned up and saved them. We were quite lucky in a way. The enemy were on our behind and racing to follow us in. We hurtled into the shore with the current and winds, and the moment we were secure, the whole thing changed, and the enemy were fighting both wind and current to pursue us. Once a few of them had been sunk they gave up and returned to their places.’

  ‘And then?’ Caesar’s face was hungry, expectant.

  ‘And then I sent the ships back to Brundisium to bring over the rest, warships and all. A few odd vessels stayed here, but the rest of the army will be with you in just days. Unless Libo remembers where his guts are and stops sailing around in circles in embarrassment, they should encounter no trouble in the crossing. We were slightly delayed in the march south as we had to keep the landing secure for them. We moved on Lissus, ready to take them down, but the citizens did the right thing. They overthrew the garrison and opened the gates to us. Lissus is yours. We were appropriately merciful to the garrison, given what they’d done days earlier. We crucified two hundred of them and then let the others run away. All except the commander. We made him regret his decisions. Briefly, I’ll admit. But there was a lot of regret. And it smelled of ammonia.’

  Caesar laughed.

  ‘Then we have decisions to make. Any attack on Pompey is still dangerous and foolhardy at best. We could try and take Dyrrachium, but then we risk landing ourselves in the midst of a siege with Pompey coming up on us from behind. His army is well-fed, and I suspect if we were to halve his rations, we might bring things back into balance. Oh, that reminds me. What of supplies?’

  Antonius shrugged. ‘The good news is we will be able to ship supplies over from Brundisium once the entire army is here, and there will be some relief from the north, too, so the army will not starve immediately. Moreover, I’ve brought some wagons with me, which will relieve your current situation.’

  ‘And the bad news?’

  ‘Our supply routes are long and tenuous. At sea they’re at risk from pirates, storms and Pompey’s ships. From the north, they have to pass towns that still hold allegiance to Pompey, and after the past hard winter there is precious little to spare anyway. Normally, as in Gaul, we’d rely on forage, but Pompey’s clearly dealt with that by stripping the land clear before we arrived. The upshot is that even with the supply routes I’ve secured the army’s going to go hungry. Especially with every new body we bring in.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ Caesar sighed, ‘Pompey receives supplies from both sides. Shipped in from his huge granaries in Dyrrachium, which contain a year’s worth of forage and more, and driven in from the east, from his camps and practice grounds in Macedonia. He eats well. We need to do something to redress this balance, clearly.’

  ‘Dyrrachium?’ Antonius mused. ‘I know you worry about getting us caught between the city and Pompey’s army, but we take Dyrrachium, and we secure his granaries. Then we have ample food and he’s reliant upon the east.’

  Calenus shook his head. ‘We’ve mooted the possibility of storming Dyrrachium so many times it’s giving me a headache. The place is strong, well supplied and well defended. Still, with the army we have now, we could take it I’m sure, but as Caesar said, in doing so we turn an unprotected back to the south and Pompey only has to step down from his Petra heights and plant a knife in it and the whole thing is over. We can’t take Dyrrachium with Pompey looming as he is. And the sad and simple fact is that even with the increased manpower and new supplies, driving him from that hill would be a feat of godly proportions.’

  ‘So what’s the option?’ Fronto muttered. ‘Sit and wait for a sign from Mars?’

  ‘We cannot take Dyrrachium and we cannot assault Pompey, yet slowly we starve while he eats,’ Caesar said. ‘We are used to hardship. Pompey and his men are not. We need to make them hungry.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘There is little we can do to prevent him receiving supplies by sea. He has effective control of these waters, and a clear line from Dyrrachium. But if we can cut off his other supplies from the east, I believe his ships will not be able to meet the demands of his army, no matter how fast they sail, much as his fleet discovered.’

  ‘And how do we do that?’ Antonius huffed. ‘Scatter our army over a fifty mile stretch of land and tell them to look for wagons?’

  ‘No. We learn from our experiences in Gaul, Marcus. We besiege him. We begin circumvallation, as we did at Alesia. We seal off Petra with an arc of defences so that no land route remains open to him.’

  Fronto’s eyes strayed to the sizeable campaign map. The terrain looked appalling, and to effectively seal Pompey in would take miles and miles of defences. Unbidden, memories of that awful, cataclysmic battle below the oppidum of Alesia came flooding back. That battle had left him with nightmares that had taken years to fade. And to contemplate a repeat, but against Romans?

  He shuddered

  * * *

  Fronto stood on a particularly lofty perch of the hill and squinted off into the haze.

  ‘This is bloody ridiculous.’

  Antonius nodded. ‘That’s the problem when no one really wants to fight a war. It’s better to do almost anything other than actually draw a sword. I expect Pompey’s army is much the same as ours. The legionaries are happy to avoid a conflict, and the only ones who itch to fight and feel the urge for booty are the forei
gn auxiliaries who don’t care too much that they’d be killing Romans.’

  ‘It’s still bloody ridiculous.’

  It had been slightly ridiculous to begin with. Caesar’s forces had begun to invest the enemy with siege works along similar lines to those constructed at Alesia. A rampart of earth and rubble was thrown up in sections, with a wattle fence atop it, carefully woven, and in places timber, where terrain, time and availability allowed. Intermittent towers were raised and filled with men. Forts were created periodically along the line and manned with strong units, which had become easier with the arrival of the rest of the army from Brundisium two days earlier. One unexpected bonus had been the appearance of Mamurra, the great engineer, who had joined the army once more in Italia and shipped out to tie himself ever closer to the consul.

  The master engineer sucked on his teeth and continually twitched his fingers in some sort of impatient or nervous habit. ‘Had I been here from the start I would have done things differently. This is not like facing confident Gauls in their home town, like Alesia. There they were content to be enfolded, for they believed themselves impregnable and knew that aid was coming. Here, Pompey is in a temporary camp and a precarious position. He will not simply watch us wall him in. I would have begun the siege works from three or four positions, keeping the army in several vexillations such that we had him surrounded while the ramparts went up all around him. Then, the whole system might have been possible to complete in just four or five miles.’

  It was all well and good to say such things, and there were difficulties he’d not accounted for, but on the whole he was probably right, and certainly the man knew of which he spoke when it came to siege works.

  In actual fact, what had happened was that Caesar’s army had begun from their main camp, sending the wall south in sections, gradually reaching around Pompey’s position with the intention of finishing at the shore to the south of the enemy’s camp. Pompey, however, had different ideas. The Caesarian siege works had arced around some two and a bit miles from camp, into the range of hills that surrounded the bay, only to be appraised by the scouts that Pompey had begun his own wall. Just as Caesar’s men pushed on to seal Pompey in, Pompey was digging his own ditches and raising his own ramparts to keep Caesar out. It was almost comical in some respect. Those men in charge of the works on the Caesarian side had pushed every effort into speed, driving the defences south, claiming the best peaks they could, but Pompey’s men were quicker, for they were more numerous and better fed. So every half mile Caesar’s men pushed, so did Pompey. The result was that the Caesarian troops had been unable to close the arc and head back down towards the sea. Instead, Pompey’s lines were forcing them to build further and further south. Instead of a solid four mile arc, now the siege line was already more than eight miles long and they were still well inland in the hills, struggling to stay ahead of Pompey’s own wall, desperate to try and close the work.