Summarily dismissed, Fronto was the first to leave, throwing out an almost insolent salute and then turning his back on them all and stomping from the tent into the late afternoon air, with the hum of bees and the distant calls of birds disturbed by the ongoing works. He stopped some twenty paces from the headquarters where he was unlikely to be caught up swiftly by the other officers, and balled his fist, pounding it on a wooden stake that formed part of a fence.
‘Blind, stupid bastards,’ he snarled.
‘Blind, not necessarily stupid,’ Antonius said at his shoulder, making him jump a little.
‘I disagree.’
‘That’s because you’re angry.’ Antonius passed him a cup of wine. Where did he get the damn things from all the time? ‘In truth, few officers would support your gut over the visible evidence. You know they’re just being cautious and sensible. I think they’re probably wrong, but I can understand their position.’
‘Their position will be bent over and begging if they don’t listen.’
Antonius laughed. ‘Caesar has spoken. You won’t change that. So do what you can within the bounds of his orders.’
Fronto frowned. ‘What?’
‘The Ninth are commanded by a sick tribune and an old camp prefect. Both men are good enough at their jobs, but neither of them is in a position to storm ramparts or swing a sword. Yet that’s your forte. It’s what you’re good at. Go to the Ninth and hang around. With luck you’ll get the evidence you need to persuade Gaius. If not, when the shit starts to fly at least they’ll have a healthy veteran commander there.’
Fronto nodded. ‘You’re quite right, of course.’
‘And I have no specific command. I am simply Caesar’s sword arm right now. The nearest positions to the Ninth are manned by the Seventh and the Tenth. I shall make my presence felt among them and make sure they are, let’s say extremely mobile.’
‘You’ll be ready to support?’
‘As fast as I can. Bear in mind we’ll still have four or five miles to cover once we’ve got the two forces together, but we’ll be ready for it, and we’ll come as fast as we can. Make sure you have a rider ready at all times.’
‘If you lead the legions away to help me, you’ll leave six miles or so of the lines more or less undefended. Caesar will be furious.’
‘Let me handle Gaius. I know how to deal with him.’
Fronto smiled. ‘Tell Salvius Cursor to sharpen his sword, then. He’ll get to use it again soon enough.’
Shaking hands with Antonius and thanking him for his support, Fronto strode off towards the animal pens to retrieve Bucephalus. He’d hoped to spot Galronus on the way and encourage the Remi to come with him, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Since the flight of the Allobroge deserters, Galronus seemed to have taken the matter personally, as though it were somehow his responsibility. Consequently, he had spent all his time among the other Gallic and Belgic and Germanic auxiliary horse, encouraging their loyalty and vetting their commanders. Useful, but Fronto missed his friend’s company. The equisio handed him the reins of the great black steed and, mounting up, Fronto rode off along the siege lines.
More work was being undertaken all along the ramparts from the bay below Dyrrachium, past Caesar’s camp, all along the hills and down to the camp of the Ninth and the last stretch of walls to the sea in the south. Caesar had sent overtures of peace to the approaching army of Scipio, but that sour faced and staunchly traditional commander had no great love of the general or his friends, and success seemed exceedingly unlikely. Consequently, the entire defensive system had taken a leaf from the book of Alesia, preparing a second set of siege works, facing outward from the extant ones, ready to repel a second force when it arrived. The legions all along the system were at work raising more towers and ramparts, digging more ditches. The more Fronto thought about the immediate future, the bleaker it looked.
Last year it had seemed so positive. Oh, he’d had his doubts and had been distressed at the very nature of civil war, but it had seemed possible. They had crossed the Rubicon and defied Pompey and the senate and yet met little resistance, securing the whole of Italia in short order and watching Pompey flee with his tail between his legs. Hispania and Massilia had been difficult propositions, but still, Fronto had simply felt that it had been a matter of pushing through and succeeding.
Then they had gathered for the last push. Pompey had run like a coward and raised weak, untrained legions in the east. All they had to do was cross the Adriatic Sea and catch the old knob-nosed bastard and they’d bring him to heel, accept the surrender of the senate, then they could all go home. It had seemed to simple.
Then they had suffered all the problems with crossing and putting to shore. Then they had spent months with half an army, beleaguered by Pompey’s navy. Then they had finally met Pompey and realised that his men might be untested, but still there were so many of them, and they had good veteran commanders. They had managed to get the army back together but still they were outnumbered. They’d had to suffer through to the harvest and even now they were not in any real position to push Pompey and attempt a victory. The coming days would only see at least two veteran legions added to the enemy’s strength. The likelihood of easily walking away with Pompey’s surrender had never seemed more remote.
He was watchful as he rode. At least the men of Caesar’s legions were true experts at siegecraft after all their time in Gaul. The extra line facing outward had risen at an incredible rate and only small areas were yet to be completed, which was a relief, with Scipio not far away.
He rode past the camp where the majority of the Tenth were based, their men all along the defences to either side of the hilltop fort. He felt a moment’s guilt over accusing Sulla of abandoning his command when in truth Fronto had spent hardly any time with the Tenth since they had begun the works here. Still, he knew they were well-looked after, and swore he spotted Atenos atop the wall yelling into the face of a startled legionary. Somewhere in there Salvius Cursor would be dreaming about standing in a lake of enemy blood, pulling the arms and legs off Pompey. Good for him. The man might be an insufferable lunatic, but he was Fronto’s insufferable lunatic, and unleashed and pointed towards the enemy, he was as useful as any cohort of veterans.
On past the fort of Volcatius Tullus, scene of the last brutal fight, and he was pleased to see that the breach at the riverbed had not only been repaired but strengthened, with a spike-filled ditch along the front. The defences were every bit as strong as they had been at Alesia. They had to be. This time they were facing Romans, men with as much experience of siege warfare as they themselves.
A rampart ten feet high and ten wide, topped with timber and wicker defences, dependent upon terrain and available materials, with towers and observation platforms. Spikes and lilia pits, and all with a ditch fifteen feet wide in front of it. A formidable line. And behind it a no-man’s-land six hundred feet wide before the new, outer defences. Similar in design, though with a lower rampart due to the sheer work involved and the limited time before Scipio’s legions hove into view.
Down from the hills, with a wave of recognition to the men of Volcatius’ fort, and onto the flat lands. He raced along between the inner and outer defences, heading for the fortification of the Ninth. They were doing well, he decided as he approached. Their legion had been seriously undermanned in the first place, and that was before they had been hit hard by Pompeian forces. They had fought like lions and upheld their honour, which pleased Fronto, given that they’d once been his own legion, long ago in Hispania. He doubted a single soldier remained in the legion who remembered his tenure as legatus, though some would remember and still mourn Longinus, who’d died on the battlefield against Ariovistus a decade ago. And now their current commander lounged leagues to the north in luxury while they struggled. Sulla was a good commander in his way, and certainly the man to keep control of an unruly force, but he ever sought fame, and having rebuilt the Ninth and achieved his goals, he was looking for somethin
g new to win at. And he saw that as coming in the north, before Dyrrachium. Sad, really, since Fronto was utterly convinced that if Sulla really wanted to make a name for himself in war, at the head of his legion was where he would get the best chance.
The Ninth were busy completing their own siege works, despite having fewer men to cover more miles than most other positions, despite the absence of their legatus and the illness of their senior tribune. It was a testament to their professionalism. The bulk of their works were complete, with just the outer ditch to dig, and the final enclosing section to add at the end, where it would run along the sea shore and seal in the defenders.
Very nicely done.
It was almost dark now, the sun sinking towards the glittering water of the sea beyond, and Fronto could almost hear the sighs of relief as the centurions blew their whistles and released the men from their labours. The workers, lathered with sweat and with aching muscles, hurried to the sea to dip in the cool water and reinvigorate themselves before retiring for an evening meal.
Fronto gave the daily watchword and passed through the solid watchful lines of the Ninth into their domain. He made his way to the camp centre and the headquarters tent pitched there, introducing himself to the two men guarding the doorway. One moved inside to announce him and then returned, ushering him in.
The tent was dark and stuffy, sultry warm to an uncomfortable level in the summer evening. His eyes took some time to adjust and finally he realised that there was no one in the seat at the table, the senior tribune instead lying on a cot bed to one side, his face waxy grey. Fronto hadn’t realised he knew Marcellinus, but he recognised the man from somewhere, some engagement in the past they’d both fought in, and though he couldn’t remember the details, the impression he had was one of a solid professional. Not in the best of health right now, though.
The man gave a rasping cough and started to pull himself up into a seated position. Fronto crossed quickly and pushed him back down. ‘Don’t be daft, man. You’re in no condition. Stay there and get better. The medicus says you will get better, yes?’
Marcellinus gave a short bark of laughter, which initiated a coughing fit that lasted some time, then sighed and slumped back.
‘I can’t stay here, sir. The men need me out there.’
‘You wouldn’t make it past the door. But I have to commend you on your work here. Without Sulla’s helpful input you seem to have achieved as much as any other position commander, and from your sickbed, with a diminished legion, no less. Quite an achievement.’
Marcellinus nodded his thanks. ‘Credit has to go to Postumus, though. Couldn’t have managed without him.’
‘I’m here to lend a hand.’ Fronto took a deep breath, ready to broach a potentially troublesome subject. ‘Do you have any concerns about the south?’
Marcellinus laughed again, then coughed for some time. ‘Yes, sir. Dreadfully so. I think the enemy are building their forces ready for something similar to last time. Yesterday there were the distinctive sounds of artillery test-firing inside their lines. They’re getting ready for something. And I tell you this…’
But he didn’t, because he spent some time instead coughing relentlessly. When he finally settled into ragged gasps, he steadied himself. ‘The ships.’
‘The ships?’
‘I’ve been counting them, sir. The supply ships that come in to the harbour there. More come in than go back out. Why’s that then, sir?’
Fronto frowned. ‘He’s amassing ships? Maybe he’s planning to run?’
Marcellinus shook his head. ‘He’d need every ship in his fleet to move that army. No, he’s got something else planned.’
Fronto nodded. ‘I’ve done my best to persuade command that you’re in danger here, but they won’t help. On the bright side, Antonius and I are working to have reserves on hand at short notice. Best we can do with the orders we’ve been given.’
The man smiled. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Get some rest.’
Fronto left the headquarters, sought out the camp prefect, Postumus, and introduced himself, and then spent some time at the ramparts watching the enemy lines like a hawk before deciding there truly was nothing to see and finally locating a free tent and settling in for the night.
* * *
Fronto knew something was wrong before the warning came. The hair stood proud on the back of his neck. His dream changed, and even in his sleep his fingers twitched, reaching from a sword that wasn’t at his hip. In his unconscious mind the great ship had been ploughing through the waves and somehow had been miraculously blessed by the gods so that it failed to make him sick. He had revelled in being able to enjoy sea travel and had been at the prow, above the ram, feeling the salt spray in his face and loving every moment.
Then the salt spray had turned warm, and he had looked down. Homer had called it the “wine dark sea”, and in his dream so was Fronto’s ocean. A sea of blood, deep and rolling, gleaming dark red waves splashing against the timbers.
He awoke suddenly, those grasping fingers instinctively dropping from his hip to the pile of clothing and equipment he had left beside the bed the night before. They closed on the sword as his salt-encrusted eyes blinked groggily open. When the soldier entered, Fronto was already half-upright with his sword drawn.
‘Sir, there’s… oh.’
Fronto nodded. ‘Where?’
‘Everywhere sir. Shit from every side.’
Fronto returned to full consciousness with the ability of the career soldier, and moments later he was shrugging into his mail shirt. Somewhere back among the Tenth in his proper tent was his burnished officer’s cuirass. But he’d long since decided that unforgiving sheets of bronze were not the most comfortable option on a horse, and so had adopted a regular soldier’s chain shirt whenever he anticipated a day spent largely in the saddle.
Fastening his expensive belt around the shirt, he sheathed the sword once more, slipped his feet into his boots, which came up to mid-calf, and grabbed his helmet with the sorry looking, limp red plume. Moments later he was emerging from the tent into the light of pre-dawn. Soldiers were running everywhere. The night-time torches were still burning, and all was chaos.
He hurried down the alley between tent groups, heading for the main siege works, where he would be able to see the Pompeian lines and get the best idea of what was happening, and halfway there almost fell over a junior tribune running the other way. The man stopped for a moment, unaware of who Fronto was and somewhat confused by the common chain shirt. Finally, seemingly swayed by the plume and the expensive sword and belt, he saluted.
‘What’s happened?’ Fronto barked.
‘We’re under attack, sir.’
‘No shit. Where?’
‘Both sides, sir. Somehow they’ve managed to get outside the lines. Some of the men say it’s Scipio, sir, but they’re carrying Pompey’s standards.’
Fronto nodded. It couldn’t be Scipio. He was still too far away. But that explained the damn ships. The twisted, cunning, knob-nosed old fart had used the darkness to ship men past the lines to the south. Then, as dawn cracked, he’d launched a simultaneous assault against the defences of the Ninth from both damn sides, forcing them to divide their meagre strength. He’d damn well told Caesar. He’d warned him. Arseholes, the lot of them. And now the Ninth were neck deep in the latrine pit.
He hurried to the northern ramparts, and his breath caught in his throat as he climbed the bank and took in the view. Pompey’s army was huge. The ground seethed with men, pouring out of the woodland on the far side of the dry river bed. Five legions? Six? And that was only here. How many men had he dropped outside the lines to fight at the other side?
Even as he felt the cold dread of facing a vastly superior force, the artillery began. With thuds and cracks, Pompey’s engines began their bombardment. Huge rocks, pots of flaming pitch, iron bolts two feet long, stone balls the side of a big man’s hand. They rained in on the fort of the Ninth like deadly hail.
‘Shit.’ He turned and was somewhat surprised to see that the tribune had followed him. ‘Find a courier. No, find two. Tell them to ride around the lines and beg help. They will get it from two places. Volcatius Tullus in the next main fort, and Marcus Antonius at the one beyond. Tell them Fronto needs help. They will come, and they’ll bring the Seventh and Tenth. We just have to hope they get here before we’re all dead.’
The tribune saluted and hurried off, perhaps grateful at being given something useful to do that didn’t involve watching a missile coming for his face. Fronto peered at the array of men and weapons before him. That constituted a proper threat, let alone what was probably happening at the far side. His gaze swept around the indigo morning, and stopped somewhere in the middle, pointing a little north of west.
‘Oh, shit.’
‘Sir?’ enquired a centurion close by, who was overseeing the mounting of scorpion artillery along the rampart.
‘More ships.’
‘Hardly makes a difference at this point, sir.’
‘Yes, it bloody does. They’re not heading south. They’re coming for the gap between the walls. The unfinished stretch. If they get between the two walls, they’ll tear this place to pieces and leave four thousand corpses in an hour. Gather every man you can spare and make for the shore, centurion.’
And he began to run, heading along the wall as rocks and bolts whispered and hummed past him on their deadly trajectories. As he ran, he gathered men. It was something he’d seen happen before. An officer running with purpose somehow picked up men as he went, and as he left the fort and hurried out into the no-man’s land between the walls, he already had almost a century of men with him.
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 14
