Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  He ran on. The ships were closing on the shore. They would get there first. They would land. If they each carried perhaps two hundred men, then that would be at least two thousand on their way right now. Bearing in mind that the entire Ninth Legion numbered less than twice that, it spelled defeat in ten-foot-high, blood-streaked letters.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he was relieved to see that same centurion emerge from the fort gate with another large group of men at his heel. Perhaps they would still be dangerously outnumbered, but at least there would be enough to give him a faint chance.

  Fronto waved on his century of men, and they ran for the shore as though Hades himself were behind them, Cerberus snapping at their heels. The enemy ships were now grounding, their keels crunching into the gravel and the vessels tipping to one side as they beached. Men were leaping from them and howling.

  Fronto did a quick calculation as he ran. All in all there couldn’t be more than a cohort of men defending the walls to either side. They would be overrun in moments. Even if Fronto and the helpful centurion could double those numbers, the chance of holding their own against the enemy was dropping with every heartbeat. They were being forced to fight enemies at both ramparts, and now more of them were in between the two lines.

  Somehow, despite the fact that he and his men had been running full pelt for the enemy, the centurion and his support had managed to catch up with them, soldiers running and panting, sagging and yet determined and with expressions of furious defiance.

  Fronto was proud to fight alongside men like this. Pompey might have the edge in numbers, but men like this had conquered Gaul.

  The shore was closer and closer. More and more ships were landing. Already Pompeian legionaries were swarming to either side, running up the banks and the steps, taking on the soldiers on the ramparts from behind their own lines. It was chaos. Impossible to tell which legionaries were part of the Ninth and which were Pompey’s unless you happened to catch the design on their shields.

  This was a disaster. Unless they got help, and damn quick, it would signal the end of the siege in the most brutal and unpleasant way.

  Screaming defiance and with half a thousand soldiers at his back, Fronto threw himself at Pompey’s army.

  Chapter 10

  Pompey’s legions gleamed. Caesar’s soldiers had by and large served a decade or more now in the general’s army, fighting across Gaul, Italia and Hispania with a dozen or more victories to their name, and their equipment and appearance was correspondingly grimy. Their gear was pitted and marked from a hundred engagements, their leather goods worn-in and dark, their tunics dulled with endless wear and wash and more than a fair share of blood stains. In short, they were veterans. Pompey’s army gleamed with the shine of burnished iron and bronze, of freshly-made and recently dyed madder tunics, the leather still bright and unyielding. And their faces were likewise fresh and unmarked.

  That was the only really simple way to identify the enemy, and Fronto latched onto it straightaway, shouting as much to the centurions around him. Ships continued to beach, disgorging men into the slaughter while the sailors grunted and hauled the empty vessels back out to sea to make room for the next ones. It was not ordered or neat. It was not a feat of logistics, such as might have been expected had Caesar planned the attack. This was more indicative of Pompey’s style. Headlong and forceful, with the simple objective of dropping as many men into the gap as possible in the shortest span of time.

  There was going to be a disaster here, and Fronto could see it unfolding. Already the defending forces were hopelessly outnumbered. Oh, they’d been outnumbered at Volcatius Tullus’ camp, but there they had had ramparts to defend. Here the enemy were now inside the lines, and there was nothing to defend.

  Lightly armed auxiliaries poured up the banks of the new, barely-complete, outer works, and the tired, beleaguered men of the Ninth turned to meet the new threat with professional calm and a hopeless determination to make the best stand of it they could. Perhaps a third of their number remained at the parapet, holding off the auxiliaries that were pressing from that side, while yet more light troops ferried thence by night loosed clouds of arrows heedlessly into the press.

  A similar story was unfolding on the inner defences. Men there were fighting off new legionaries coming for their unprotected backs, while trying to hold the bulk of Pompey’s strength beyond. Across that dry river, men were flooding from the woodlands like a river bursting its banks. With repeated thuds and cracks, missiles struck men and defences, pulverising the former, having fortunately little effect on the latter. The packed earth of the banks defied the heavy stone missiles, and the wicker screens allowed sharp missiles to pass inside and either rip through or become entangled. Occasionally a stone would shatter a piece of the timber defences, but with little effect given that their men were already inside. Indeed, as the sea-borne legionaries began to become visible on the wall tops, the artillery and arrows died away, the soldiers fearful of killing more of their own men than of Caesar’s.

  As they closed on the legionaries hurrying up from the beach, Fronto allowed the soldiers with him to take the lead, slowing just a little as a young junior tribune appeared from somewhere, sweating with a new, unused sword in hand.

  ‘This is impossible, sir,’ the tribune said, using his blade to gesture at the chaos ahead.

  It was. There was no hope of holding the place. In quarter of an hour every Caesarian soldier in this sector would be nothing but a mouldering corpse. It was hopeless. He nodded at the tribune.

  ‘It is. But we have to withdraw in an orderly manner or the losses will be near total. Find musicians. Get them to blow the retreat, but make sure every tribune, centurion and optio is keeping his men in line. We form up to fall back, bringing the men down from the ramparts to either side. Form into a block. Then retreat in good order, fighting as we go.’

  ‘Abandon the walls, sir?’ barked an astonished centurion he’d not noticed.

  ‘The walls are lost, man. We need to fall back to the fort. There we can hold them off until friends arrive.’

  If they arrived.

  The centurion and the tribune both hurried off to carry out those tasks, and heartbeats later Fronto heard the distinctive calls to fall back.

  It would not be enough. The men of the Ninth were dying in droves. They were taking plenty of the enemy with them, but the problem was that there were plenty of the enemy to take. Fronto pushed forwards to where the men he had led had not yet responded to a call, engaged as they were in a fight to the death with a superior force. The centurion there clearly knew what he was doing. They were formed well and could not begin to fall back until the men from the walls to either side were doing so, else they would be overrun in moments.

  Suddenly, with a cry of victory, a legionary with a Pompeian design on his shield and a cut along his cheek beneath his eye, burst through the Caesarian lines into the space behind. For a moment he staggered to a halt, uncertain what to do next, now that he was inside. Then he turned and went for the unprotected rear of the Ninth, making for one particular man. Somewhere in the midst of the press he, like Fronto, could see the silver eagle of the Ninth bobbing above the heads of the men. Killing centurions was of prime importance in any engagement like this for, without their direction, units often began to fall apart. Taking standards was a matter for unit pride. A man who captured a standard was a guaranteed hero. But a man who captured a legion’s eagle was made for life, and that legion dishonoured utterly.

  Fronto moved instantly. The Pompeian thrust his blade into a man, picking his armpit target easily from the unprotected rear. The man screamed, then gurgled, then fell, opening up the tiniest space towards the aquilifer and his silver eagle.

  He brought back his sword to strike the next man, but Fronto was on him then. The tip of the legate’s gladius punched into the man’s neck between chain collar and bronze neck guard, slamming through muscle and tendon. He knew the wound well, had seen it happen plenty of time
s, as the helmet tipped to one side, the cords in the man’s neck ruined.

  The formerly-victorious legionary jerked and dropped his blade, lurching back and staggering a few feet before falling, a small jet of crimson bursting out from beneath his helmet.

  Fronto ignored the man. He would be dead soon enough and little danger until then. His eyes took in the walls to either side. His heart sank. There would be no orderly retreat. The walls were hard fought, but already the Pompeians had achieved control of much of them. If they managed to secure the whole length, then Fronto and his men would be surrounded on three sides.

  ‘Fall back,’ he bellowed. To his relief, the centurion took up the call and blew his whistle.

  The men of the Ninth began to step back, trying to open up the gap between them and the enemy without weakening their line in the process, but the enemy were too many and too eager, pressing the fight forwards faster than the Ninth could retreat, forcing them to fight for their very existence with each step they took. Men were falling with every heartbeat, and Fronto was dismayed to see how few there were already. Two standard bearers remained in the press, and two centurions and an optio, as far as he could see, as well as that all-important silver eagle wavering in the centre.

  Still they pushed and fought. Without fully intending to, Fronto suddenly found that he’d made his way in among the combatants and was pushing towards the enemy through a crowd of his men heading the other way as best they could. It was not hard to reach the front, for men were falling to be trodden underfoot, and suddenly he was there, stabbing and hacking, wishing he had a shield. He felt a blow on his left shoulder that was dulled by the double layer of chain but would leave an impressive bruise. He felt the fire of a cut on his arm, then one on his leg, mere flesh wounds but painful. He stabbed again, and again, killing with masterful efficiency, yet never making headway for there were always two men ready to replace each one he killed.

  His fight was over in a trice. Some furious, wild young Achaean with a lust for battle tried twice to take the officer before him in the neck or armpit. Fronto turned each blow, but the young man was so fast and damned energetic that the legate never had the time to return the favour. Finally, snarling with anger that he seemed so unable to kill the officer, the legionary resorted to an unexpected move.

  He kicked out and struck Fronto in the knee.

  The legate’s world exploded in shimmering white pain. It was blind luck that he fell backwards and not forwards into the path of the young legionary’s blade. For years he had been building up the strength of his weak knee, knowing it for trouble. He had reached the point where it only ached in cold winter weather, and could bear him even on the hardest runs. He had almost forgotten that it was his weak spot. His Achilles heel, as it were. But now, the joint damaged with a kick from a hobnail boot, through tears of pain, the trouble he’d had all came flooding back. In a panic, he wondered whether it was broken. Would he walk again? Somehow the present odds of being dead at any moment seemed less important than the long-term possibilities of immobility.

  He felt boots kicking him in the press, then suddenly arms were under him, helping him up. The retreat had paused just long enough to secure the officer and help him from the ground. He tried to put his weight on his knee and discovered to his astonishment that he could. It hurt like the cuts of a thousand blades, but it would take his weight. Panting, wincing, and crying out, he tried not to be too much of a burden.

  The legionary at one side was already badly wounded, his sword arm useless. At the other side, Fronto was shocked to see that it was the aquilifer helping him, legate in one hand, eagle in the other, sword lost somewhere in the press. They were falling back, and they had gone far enough that he could no longer see the enemy ships through the press, but they were still dying in droves, and the unit was horribly diminished. Even the most basic calculation told him they’d never reach the fort.

  More men suddenly disappeared in front of them, and Pompeian legionaries were there, snarling and charging. The legionary, unable to fight anyway, continued to help Fronto backwards. The aquilifer bellowed to his compatriots for aid and began to swing the silver-tipped staff like a weapon, keeping the enemy at bay. It was a good tactic for a moment, and bought them enough time for Fronto to be hauled back out of immediate danger, but even before more Caesarian legionaries could reach him to help, the eagle bearer had been mobbed. His eagle remained in hand, but had been knocked aside, and now he held it up, as far from any grasping hand as he could. He took two, then three, then four wounds, men swiping and stabbing.

  Finally, other legionaries were there, helping hold back the enemy. The aquilifer, horribly wounded, staggering and groaning, limped and shuffled back from the enemy.

  Fronto was almost trampled by the horse before he realised it was there. He turned at a snort and a huge expulsion of horse breath, and stared up the nostrils of a white mare.

  Three horsemen. A tribune, a decurion and a courier.

  ‘My compliments, Legate Fronto,’ the junior tribune said with weary politeness. ‘Tribune Marcellinus is on his way to your relief and bids you not die until he arrives.’

  ‘I’ll try rather hard,’ grinned Fronto.

  ‘Here,’ the aquilifer shouted next to the officers, staggering forwards and pressing the silver eagle on the great ash shaft to the decurion. ‘The eagle is my life. It’s been mine for years. Restore it to Caesar with honour before the enemy take it.’

  The decurion, staring, grasped the eagle and lifted it reverentially. He glanced over at the tribune, who nodded, then turned and rode off back towards the bulk of the army, carrying the vital symbol.

  With the legionary’s help, Fronto limped to the nearest open space and took stock. The enemy’s advance along the gap between the walls had slowed, naturally. As the distance to the fort shortened, so the number of defenders within the gap became proportionally higher, even with the dreadful losses, so their front against the enemy was becoming stronger despite men falling constantly. The standards and the eagle had all been brought back out of danger. Having redeemed themselves over that unpleasant business at Placentia, the Ninth were damned if they were going to be dishonoured now. They were the indispensable unit here, they alone holding off the might of Pompey.

  Fronto sighed. He was done fighting for today, until he could get a medicus to look at his knee and strap it up. At least they were in good order now. They were still dying and being fought back, and the battle here was currently hopeless, but they could hold on for a short while now.

  It was not long before the reserves arrived. More legionaries, several cohorts in fact, threw themselves into the fray and helped hold back the tide. Fronto sagged as a figure on a horse appeared close by. He looked up into the grey, waxy, sweating face of Marcellinus.

  ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘You’re no Olympias painting yourself,’ the ill tribune chuckled, then coughed briefly. ‘I’ve brought your horse. Fortunate, it seems.’

  He gestured and a legionary hurried forwards leading Bucephalus by the reins. Fronto smiled with relief, and allowed the one-armed legionary who’d saved his life to help him up. He turned to Marcellinus. ‘This soldier is to be commended. Saved my life.’

  A centurion close by, who’d overheard, reached out to help the injured soldier. ‘I’ll see he gets straight to a medicus, sir.’

  Fronto nodded. ‘And a reward later. Definitely a reward.’ He looked around, hoping to find the Ninth’s aquilifer kneeling and rocking, but sadly the man lay prone and immobile, having finally succumbed to his dreadful injuries. ‘Your eagle bearer deserves to be buried with extreme honour, too.’

  Marcellinus gestured expansively with a shaking arm. ‘I doubt anyone will get much of a burial, Legate. I’ve brought four more cohorts and they’re just getting lost in the chaos. All I’m doing is sacrificing more men. I think you had it right. We need to pull back to the fort and hold there.’

  The two officers sat together as their or
ders were relayed, and then began to turn and head for the fort. As the line of butchery closed, men still dropping with every heartbeat, the officers entered the fort and gave orders that the gates all be closed, leaving only this one until the last men had come through and they could save no more. Having dismounted, with the aid of a legionary Fronto struggled up the steps to the wall walk above the remaining gate and leaned on the parapet next to a tense-looking soldier, Marcellinus coming to stand beside him, leaning likewise on the timber and shaking with the effort of simply being upright and out of his sick bed.

  The view from this vantage point was far from encouraging.

  The ramparts from this fort to the sea were lost. To the south, lightly armed and armoured auxiliary cavalry and spearmen flooded the countryside, their discipline not the match of the legions. A number of them had broken off the attack entirely to find a source of fresh water and slake the thirst that had been growing for months. Still, there were enough engaged with the Caesarians to keep them busy at the siege line, though now most of that was in their hands anyway, barring the last hundred paces or so outside the fort. On the Pompeian side of the twin defences, the legions of the enemy had triumphed, sweeping out of that woodland, across the dry river and over the walls like a mass of ants. Their artillery was arrayed on the far bank of the river bed, but had long since fallen silent, now entirely unnecessary against the disastrously beaten Caesarians.

  Indeed, all that remained of those cohorts from the Ninth who had swept out in an attempt to halt the landing of troops on the shore between the walls was less than a cohort’s worth of men. A few ragged centuries completely devoid of centurions now, yet still holding together in a disciplined line despite that, as they fell back from the meat grinder to the unlikely safety of the fort.