Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘I’m not sure that opening hostilities just to take the men’s minds off their empty bellies would be the most prudent course,’ Fronto grunted.

  ‘We all know it’s going to come down to a fight. The faster we accept that and deal with it, the stronger the legions will be. If we let them wither away with hunger, do you really think they’ll stand against Pompey’s men?’

  ‘Pompey’s men are largely untested new recruits,’ Fronto countered.

  ‘But strong and confident ones. Give me an untested man like that over a starving, weak veteran any day’

  ‘Hmm.’ He’d have liked to argue the point, but sadly, he couldn’t find a way. Though he hated to admit it, Salvius had a point. ‘The men are eating barley gruel; meat too. They might be lacking in bread, but at least they’re getting sustenance.’

  ‘Fronto, the men are digging up some kind of spiky root and mashing it up with milk, stuffing it down their gullets as though it were nectar of the gods. That is not a good sign.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Damn it.

  Dam it.

  Dam it? A slow smile spread across Fronto’s face as he watched the twinkling surface of that narrow river that ran down through the woods and past the old camp of the Ninth now occupied by Pompey’s men.

  ‘Water.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re all starving but despite the fact that the weather has dried out, we all have plenty of water. At least no one is dying of thirst.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Remember how bad things got aboard Pompey’s ships? Libo said they were sucking the dew from the canvas they were so thirsty. It was probably that thirst that did for Bibulus. They couldn’t ferry water from Dyrrachium fast enough to keep everyone supplied. It would be so much worse in a large army than among naval crews.’

  ‘But as you said, we all have plenty of water.’

  Fronto’s grin widened. ‘But we have control of it. All the streams and rivers that run through Pompey’s territory come from hills out here. We can dam the flow, divert the water courses. We would still have access to them, but we could dry up the supply for Pompey’s men.’

  Salvius Cursor also grinned now, though Galronus looked troubled. ‘I do not like this method of war. It is not a way to treat warriors just because there are political differences between you.’

  ‘There he goes with his Gallic honour thing again,’ Fronto smiled. ‘If it means we might be able to force them to submit without a proper fight, I’m all for it.’

  ‘If victory is important at any cost,’ Galronus said, ‘then why not just poison the water and watch them all die?’

  Fronto’s face slipped into a sour expression of distaste. ‘Some things are too low even for war. Come on. Let’s go see Caesar.’

  * * *

  Days passed as the new plan was put into action. The tension on the Illyrian coast built slowly with each passing day as Pompey’s forces watched the plentiful water supplies begin to fail. Rivers and streams became shallower and narrower until finally they halted altogether. The entire enemy army shifted its focus to what water sources remained, until they too dried up and finally, after half a month, there was no source left.

  The Caesarian army worked feverishly, damming rivers and cutting new courses for them, diverting the flow into other valleys that skirted the system of siege lines and emptied into the sea safely behind Caesar’s lines. Deep defiles were sealed with vertical piles driven into the solid ground, covered with horizontal slats and then built up with mounds of earth, sending the rising waters into new outlets.

  The balance was beginning to tip. The men of Caesar’s legions looked north hungrily towards the fertile plains around the Ardaxanos River, where young wheat was beginning to turn gold with the promise of provisions. They might be on less than half standard rations, but ample food was looming closer and closer, and at least they had plentiful water supplies. In fact, legionaries had taken to bringing buckets of water to almost within bow shot of the enemy lines and there stripping naked and bathing in full sight of an enemy that had not seen clean water for some time.

  The enemy had reputedly resorted to digging shallow pits in the low, marshy ground near the sea and desperately sucking down the dank, filthy water they could sparingly find. Disease would soon become an issue for Pompey’s forces. They had certainly begun to sacrifice animals they could no longer afford to keep supplied with water. Meat was plentiful among the enemy, at least, though it was not only pack animals that were given up, but even the weaker of the cavalry horses.

  Fronto was in his accustomed place, at that last hill in the range, overlooking the flat lands and the dry river bed that ran down to the lost fort by the sea, Galronus and Salvius Cursor at his shoulders as usual. Here, given the terrain and the excellent vantage point, one of the numerous forts along the system sat squat and heavy on the rise. Three cohorts of the Seventh under Volcatius Tullus occupied the fort, which remained one of the most critical points in the system.

  Fronto’s gaze strayed from the flat ground before them back to the interior of the fort behind the platform. Tullus was visible leaning over a trestle table outside his small headquarters and stabbing a map with his finger as half a dozen centurions nodded soberly. A good man, Tullus. Not one who had made a grand name for himself, nor become rich through his association with Caesar as some had, but a veteran officer and a good, dependable man. Years earlier he had commanded the bridge across the Rhenus with great success. He had led a wing of cavalry at Alesia and commanded a legion at Ilerda. A man who Caesar trusted implicitly.

  As if drawn by Fronto’s gaze, Tullus looked up and nodded. Fronto returned the gesture and then spun back to the grand view before them. Something was happening at the Pompeian line some half a mile away.

  ‘Do you see that?’

  Galronus nodded. ‘A gathering of men. That’s not just a defensive force, is it?’

  Fronto shook his head. ‘Salvius?’

  ‘A full legion, I’d say, and armed for a fight.’

  ‘Why, though? If we’ve pushed Pompey far enough and he thinks it’s time to open hostilities, why not field his whole army and try and swamp us. You were quite right about numbers over experience. It would certainly not be a guaranteed win for us. So why field just a single legion?’

  The answer came to him in a trice as his eyes once more caught that long, dry riverbed that passed close to this fort. ‘He’s going to try and restore the water, isn’t he. This isn’t a full scale battle at all. He’s trying to break through and destroy the dams.’ He turned to the fort. ‘Volcatius? Have your men fall in. The enemy are coming.’ Then to one of the legionaries on the rampart below. ‘Run to the next fort and tell the commander we need aid.’

  The soldier saluted and ran off north, along the earth bank, but his mission would almost certainly be fruitless, for even as horns sang out from that gathering of Pompeian men, similar calls went up a few miles away to both left and right. Fronto’s rising gaze could just make out in the great distance a force of men gathering closer to the coast, preparing to sally out against the Caesarian lines. Similar was undoubtedly the case off to the north, further into the hills. There would be no aid from the other forts and the bulk of the Caesarian reserves remained in the north at the main camp.

  They were on their own.

  ‘We’re about to test your assumption on the strength of fresh recruits, Salvius. Three cohorts against a legion. Think Tullus’ legionaries can each kill three men?’

  ‘I’ll make up any difference,’ the tribune replied, jerking his sword from its sheath with a well-oiled hiss.

  They watched, tense, as the Pompeian legion issued from a gate in that timber line half a mile away, forming up on the outside, ready to move. Moments later, Tullus was with the three officers, climbing the ladder and exhaling deeply as he took in the mass of enemy legionaries in a huge block beginning to move at the sound of the buccinae.

  ‘They’re coming for the dam?’

  �
��I figure so.’

  ‘Then they’ll have to secure this fort, but they have enough men to concentrate on the river too.’

  ‘Yes, I’d say so,’ Fronto replied. ‘You think they’ll try and break through the siege line as well as taking this fort?’

  ‘I would,’ Volcatius shrugged. ‘Time is essential for them. If they delay too much, reinforcements will come down from the north and begin to support the lines. They need to hack apart the dam and get the water flowing.’

  ‘But what use is that if they don’t press and secure the walls?’

  ‘They only have to have the water flowing for a day and they can fill enough barrels to keep them going for months. It won’t matter then if we damn the streams again. They’ll have ample to last them until Scipio arrives with his Syrian legions and stabs us in the back.’

  ‘So we need to protect the dam.’

  Volcatius nodded and turned to his signaller, who had just climbed the ladder behind him. ‘Have the Third Cohort leave by the rear gate and hurry down, forming up in the riverbed. Make sure you do it quietly. I want the enemy to think we’re all still in the fort as long as possible, so they commit fully to what they think is a weak spot.’

  ‘Cunning bugger,’ Fronto grinned. ‘Glad you’re on our side.’

  ‘Care to command the river bed, Fronto?’

  He answered with a grin. ‘Salvius? Galronus?’

  The three of them followed the garrison’s commander back down the ladder into the small fort, then nodded their farewell to him as he prepared his officers, distributing men along the western rampart and the flanking sections of the defensive circuit. One cohort, led by a senior centurion, was already departing the rear of the fort without the usual signals and calls, and they hurried after the men. The rear gate led to a long slope that they hurried across for the former course of the river. The bed was dry as dust now, and Fronto could see the massive earth dam just seven or eight hundred paces away, diverting the flow so that it now disappeared down a valley to the south, meandering far from its original course. The section of rampart through which the river had originally flowed had been in-filled since the dam’s creation and was only identifiable as different work from the clear dip of the dry river bed that ran beneath it.

  Fronto could see the lines of men from the other cohorts shuffling along the wall top, strengthening the defences. They would focus on the fort, but had to keep the flanks secure also.

  Fronto and his friends scurried around to the front of the gathered cohort, where the six centurions were deep in conversation, and all six broke up, turned and snapped out a salute at the appearance of the three officers.

  ‘Sirs.’

  ‘Centurion. You’re in charge here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Cincius Laeca, sir.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  The centurion frowned. ‘We split the centuries up to act as individual units and prepare for any breakthrough. That way we’re highly mobile and can commit to more than one spot if we need to.’

  Fronto nodded. ‘Sound plan. But I’d split into groups of two centuries. Stronger units but still mobile enough to react.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Select your two most veteran centuries and put them in the centre, on the river bed. The others can be placed on the banks to left and right. Galronus here can help with the left, Salvius with the centre and I’ll join the right.’

  ‘Sir, it might not be safe to…’

  Fronto waved him aside. ‘Every blade is crucial when the odds are more than three to one, Centurion.’

  Grudgingly, the centurion nodded, and distributed the orders to his fellow commanders. Fronto scanned the men atop the wall until he spotted a centurion’s crest, then called out for him. When the man turned, looked down and spotted Fronto, he saluted. ‘Give us a wave when it starts to look like trouble, and point the weak spots out.’

  Another salute, and the man went back to preparing.

  Fronto moved off to the gentle slope of the river’s right bank and fell into position there with two undermanned centuries. The army may now all be here, but each legion was still short of manpower. The three units defending the dam would each number a hundred and sixty men on parchment, but in reality they would be lucky to number a hundred and twenty. Fronto fell in between the two centurions, sword out and ready. The two men gave him a polite but disapproving look, unhappy at the presence of a senior officer at the front. He glanced over to the left and could see Galronus in a similar position on the left bank and Salvius Cursor slightly out front at the centre, almost vibrating with the need to plant his blade in something.

  It seemed strange being here behind the ramparts, unable to see what was happening, but the arrival of Pompey’s force on the scene was clearly audible. They listened to the distinctive tromp of thousands of caligae as they closed on the Caesarian defence. Then there was silence. The enemy had drawn up their lines a little distant.

  More silence. Fronto felt the tension creeping across his skin, making the hairs stand proud.

  A whistle.

  The thunder of thousands of men charging.

  Another whistle. A few shouts from the wall top and the din of clatters and grunts as men hefted pila and threw them down at the advancing enemy. Screams, muffled, from the far side. Fronto’s heart lurched as a pilum, clearly launched by an insanely powerful arm, cleared the parapet above, passed between two of the defenders and plunged down towards the hidden defenders within. The centuries behind Fronto scattered, leaving a wide circle into which the javelin fell, plunging into the earth and bending on impact. To their credit, they had not shouted or even uttered a word beyond low grunts. A man yanked the pilum out of the ground and tossed it away onto the grass and the lines re-formed.

  Here and there, more missiles came over the top, each time with plenty of warning for the watchful, waiting soldiers. Over the next quarter of an hour it became clear that things were becoming more perilous atop the wall. The shouting became more desperate. The sounds of timber on timber was indicative of siege ladders. Bodies started to fall, rolling down the internal turf slope of the rampart to lie as grisly warnings to the waiting men.

  When the first breach came, they needed no indication from the centurion above. Somehow the enemy had managed to haul the fence outwards, the timbers and the wicker screen falling away and leaving a gap. The officer that was supposed to be warning them managed a strangled cry and then rolled to a halt some twenty feet from Fronto, gouts of blood still pumping from his neck.

  Men rushed along to defend the breach from both sides of the rampart, but it was simply too wide and broken to plug with simple shuffling of men. There would be no other breaches now. There wouldn’t need to be. Fronto had expected them to come over the top piecemeal, but this would be a full push, and probably by three or four cohorts. They expected, however, only the defenders on the wall top. Fronto turned and waved at the other officers, pointing to the breach above and drawing a line across his throat with a finger. Then he nodded to the centurions beside him and they began to jog up the slope, the two centuries following without the need for an official signal.

  It was the work of mere moments to climb the rear of the rampart, and as they emerged at the top the centurions beside him gave a great warlike roar and invoked the name of Mars, the centuries of men joining in. With a huge cry of fury, the reserve force filled the gap where the timbers and fencing had been pulled away with ropes. The enemy were pushing into the gap like a sea of men, climbing the far side with a triumphant rumble which turned to cries of shock and panic as they met a wall of iron and bronze in the form of fresh reserves.

  ‘For Caesar,’ Fronto bellowed as the enemy renewed their attack and pressed into the gap.

  ‘Pompey Magnus,’ bellowed someone among the enemy, drawing the bellowed name of Caesar from every voice among the defenders. Then the names were lost beneath the din of combat.

  Fronto felt the familiar simplicity of war washing over him. He c
ould see in the faces of many of those they faced how raw they were. The sheer terror of their situation widened their eyes and made their sword arms tremble. They had yet to learn that surrendering to the simplicity of it all removed the horror. It was a simple game of ‘me or you’. You killed until they were all gone, or until you failed to stop a blade in time.

  A young legionary with the swarthy look of a southern Greek came at him, raising his shield in preparation to smash the iron boss at Fronto’s face. A standard move, and often a good one, but not against a man who’d been the aggressor and recipient of that move so many times he could no longer count. He allowed the man to come, then took a half step to the right at the last moment. As the boss smashed out in the wrong place, the young soldier unaware of the failure, the fingers of Fronto’s left hand grasped the shield’s shiny new edging and hauled it outwards. There was the sound of a breaking bone as the soldier’s grip meant his shield hand was jerked painfully sideways. Fortunately he did not suffer long, for Fronto’s blade sank into his armpit even as he raised his sword in desperation.

  The man fell away and a gangly legionary behind him attempted to throw a lunge at Fronto, He over-extended himself and Fronto ducked to the side and then simply took a step forwards so that he was inside the reach of the man’s arm. With calculated precision, he aimed the brim of his helmet and butted the man in the face, his strike perfectly accurate, The blow bent the cheek pieces of the poor man’s helmet so that they cut painfully deep into his cheeks, though his shattered and flat nose would concern him more. The soldier howled and was gone in a moment as another man made to swipe at the legate. Fronto caught the blow with his own blade and pushed it aside. This man was more of a veteran, but still he was unprepared, and before he could recover for a second strike, Fronto lifted his foot and slammed it down on the other man’s, shattering the bones and mashing the toes with the hobnails. The soldier screamed and fell, but Fronto managed to get a blow in at his arm before he disappeared from sight.