Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War

by S. J. A. Turney

They were still dying as they came, but the Pompeians pressing them were starting to ease up a little the closer they came to the camp of the Ninth, knowing that they would soon be in range of the scorpions and pila of the defenders on the walls.

  Fronto watched in bitter anger as the heroic men fighting back to safety began to pass through the gate. It was not his place to make the decision, with the Ninth’s current commander present, but judging by the look on Marcellinus’ face, he was hardly relishing the duty, either. Sometimes a senior officer, rather than delegating had to take on the more onerous tasks to lift them from the shoulders of his men. With a deep breath and a dark sigh, Fronto lifted his hand and, pausing until he could justify the delay no longer, bellowed the hated command.

  ‘Close the gates.’

  Below, a centurion relayed the order and two dozen men began to force the gate closed against the tide of desperate men from the Ninth still flooding through it. Men would be trapped out there, and they would die, because Fronto had sealed the gate on them, but the alternative was unthinkable. To wait and save every last man would almost certainly allow Pompeian legionaries in too, and if they gained even the slightest foothold, they could keep the gates wide for their fellows. Then the enemy would be in, and the fort would fall, butchered from within, just as they had been on the sea walls.

  With some struggling, the leaves of the gate were forced closed, a last few thankful and relieved men pushing their way through the gap before the timbers banged together and the twin wooden beams were dropped across it to hold it closed.

  Fronto forced himself to watch the butchering of the men he had condemned to their fate outside the gate. He counted them and wished he had names to remember. Twenty two men were killed before the gate under his sickened gaze.

  But the fort was sealed tight and they were as safe as they could hope to be right now.

  That very notion was challenged even as it occurred to Fronto, a pilum shaft clunking against the timbers before him, and a sling stone whipping through the air close to his ear. Both he and Marcellinus ducked back. Expert artillerists manned their weapons and began to release bolts and stones from the ramparts into the crowds of Pompeian soldiers outside. The few men trained with slings brought them to the west rampart and began to fling bullets back into the enemy, and others gathered rocks to throw. Fronto tried not to think of the odds. It was like a reedy child in a tree throwing sticks at a pack of wolves.

  The two senior officers stood back, as safe as they could manage from the errant missiles whirring over the parapet, both men leaning on fencing for support, for injury or ailment’s sake. The sounds of battle were furious, coming now from west, north and south ramparts, the small fort almost surrounded. They would soon have to make the next difficult decision: whether to abandon the fort and flee through the east gate – the only free side – along the line between the two walls, and as far as the next manned installation. To do so would save lives, but would be to effectively abandon any hope of maintaining the siege and to force Caesar to withdraw, for Pompey would then control at least a quarter of the Caesarian defences. Or perhaps to stay and make a heroic stand here. Very likely everyone would die, of course, and the result might well be the same, but then that way at least there was the faintest chance. As long as they held, there would always be hope.

  Damn Caesar for not listening.

  A rumble had begun somewhere, and Fronto realised he was hearing it underneath the din of battle. Thunder? But the skies were clear, and there had been no rain in so long.

  Hooves. That was the thunder of hooves.

  Limping and cursing, Fronto lurched as fast as his painful knee would allow along the rampart to the south, from where the noise was clearly now coming. As he neared the corner of the fort, where the line of the outer defences joined, he frowned. The rumble was the skirmishing light cavalry of Pompey’s, who had been racing around the periphery threatening and supporting. Now they were racing en-masse back towards the shore.

  The frown turned into a smile as his gaze tracked back to the east, towards that from which Pompey’s horsemen were running. Caesar’s Gallic horse, a German unit too, were racing along in formation outside the walls, and Fronto could make out the shape of Galronus on the lead beast, with a decurion close by, bellowing battle cries in his native tongue. The other auxiliaries there turned and fled, too, in the face of Galronus and his horsemen. Fronto’s grin faltered as he realised the riders were not as numerous as he’d initially supposed. They were enough to put the enemy to flight, but if the Pompeians realised how few their pursuers were and decided to turn and face them, the engagement would probably still tip in the enemy’s favour. Fronto had assumed it was the lead wing of the full cavalry, but in fact it was less than a wing.

  His faltering smile returned to glory as his ears now picked up a new sound. Buccinae. Legionary calls from the east. Ignoring the pain in his knee as best he could, he now lurched along the outer wall, the Gallic and German cavalry racing past below him like some dreadful native war band. In thirty heartbeats, he reached the next corner, and was rewarded with a view east between the twin ramparts. Perhaps six or seven thousand men were coming in full battle array and tight formation. At the head of them rode a man in gleaming burnished bronze on a tall, impressive grey. Marcus Antonius. And the standards behind him were those of the Seventh and Tenth Legions.

  Help had arrived. Marcellinus, who had followed Fronto round with a relieved smile plastered across his face, called out the order to open the gate and, with a sense of profound gratitude, the legionaries below threw the gates wide.

  Fronto couldn’t help but grin as Antonius rode through the gate with the tribunes of the two legions at his back and the men stomping along in lines. The soldiers of the Ninth erupted into cheers as the relief force surged through the gate and into the camp, Antonius’ straying gaze catching Fronto and mouthing something uncomplimentary about Caesar at him in passing, with a grin. Atenos threw him a salute, and even Salvius Cursor cast him an acknowledging nod of recognition.

  As they moved through the centre of the small fort, Antonius bellowed the order for the soldiers at the west gate to stand ready, then told his men to draw their blades. The officers re-formed their units ready for battle. In swift succession, Antonius gave the two orders to open the gate and to charge. Fronto’s grin broadened as the combined forces of the Seventh and Tenth ran at the gate even as it was hauled open. The Pompeian forces outside let out a cry of triumph at the opening gate, which turned into shouts of dismay as they ran into the fort only to find themselves face to face with a wall of iron, bronze and painted wood in the form of fresh, enthusiastic veteran legionaries.

  The Seventh and the Tenth roared the name of Caesar, invoked Minerva and Mars and high Jupiter, and began to kill, pushing the numerous but green forces of Pompey back from the gate. In mere moments they were in the open once more, in the space between the inner and outer siege works, scything through Pompey’s men like a farmer through the wheat harvest. Fronto and Marcellinus lurched and staggered round to the west gate where they had started, leaning once more upon the parapet to watch the fight unfold.

  The outer wall was clear. Galronus and his cavalry, though numerically inferior, had put the enemy to flight. The Pompeian skirmishers, horse and foot alike, had melted away into the countryside to the south. The Remi noble who had led the heroic charge kept a tight rein on his forces, though. A few small units slipped his command, racing off after the fleeing enemy, but returned, chastened, at belligerent calls from the cavalry horns. They had to keep order. If the Gauls and Germans raced off into the country seeking their prey they would be no further use here, and calling them back would be more difficult with every half mile they raced. Instead, they thundered along the ramparts, hurling light javelins at the Pompeian soldiers at the parapets, helping clear the way for Antonius’ relief force.

  Antonius, of course, had gradually dropped to the rear of his force, allowing the heavy infantry to lead th
e way. By the time the next stage of the battle was well underway, Antonius had dismounted and climbed the wall to stand between Fronto and Marcellinus.

  ‘Of course, we can’t win,’ he said, his smile still in place.

  Fronto nodded his agreement, though Marcellinus frowned.

  ‘Why not, sir?’

  ‘Even with my reinforcements, we number three diminished legions against perhaps seven or eight of Pompey’s. And the cavalry out there are still outnumbered. They helped turn the tide, but that tide will roll back in yet. That’s why Galronus has not pressed them when they fled. And the two legions I brought will not attempt to actually win here. That’s not the orders I gave.’

  ‘What orders did you give then, sir?’

  ‘To drive them back and free the fort. I want them out of artillery range so we can consolidate once again. If we try to do more we’ll just end up butchered and back in the same position as the Ninth were a quarter of an hour ago. No, we need the enemy out of reach so we can all breathe and reassess. The Seventh and Tenth have excellent men in charge: Atenos and Volcatius Tullus. Both men know just how far to go and when to stop, and both have solid control of their men. No heroics. Just a single push and then back to the fort. See how that’s happening even now?’

  And they could. The attacking Caesarians had reached a point some eight hundred paces from the fort walls and had given a final, terrifying, charge. Even from this distance, Fronto was certain that the figure leading the charge like some Tartaran monster of ancient legend was Salvius Cursor. The enemy broke and ran towards the sea, but the Seventh and Tenth did not follow. Instead, they began to chant their commander in chief’s name and slowly pulled back in perfect order, filing through the gate.

  ‘What now then?’ Fronto breathed as the relief force swarmed into the fort and the gate was shut.

  ‘Now we watch and observe. We add what extra defences we can manage, we heal the wounded and we bury the dead. And we hope that Gaius hauls Sulla’s head out of his backside long enough to realise he’s needed. I sent a message to Caesar as we marched for here. By now, hopefully, the general has gathered a sizeable force and set off around the defences to support us. There is a chance here, Fronto. Right now, we’re in the shit. But if Caesar comes in force and we can come anywhere close to matching their numbers, we could force Pompey to commit to open battle at last. We could end this whole thing here, today, before Scipio and his men get here.’

  ‘I pray Fortuna’s listening,’ Fronto muttered, grasping the pendant at his neck.

  ‘Knee troubling you again, Fronto?’

  ‘Some young knobhead in the enemy lines kicked me in it. Felt it go. At least I can still stand. I thought the runt had broken it for a moment.’

  ‘You’ll bounce back, Fronto. Never seen anyone with your power of recovery. Or your luck.’

  ‘I don’t feel especially lucky right now. Watching Pompey swarming over our walls, with a knee that hurts like bollocks and relying on someone turning up to haul us back out of the latrine.’

  ‘You’re not dead, Fronto. Given what you just went through, that’s lucky.’

  ‘I suppose. But we’ve lost the sea walls. Can you see? Pompey’s men are already at work dismantling parts of our defences and building their own. They’re making it unusable to us and turning it into their own lines. I’m starting to think this is a lost cause and we’d be better pulling back for a while.’

  They all watched. Some distance away, close to the shore, Pompey’s men were already beginning to construct another large camp outside the entire system. Along with that re-occupied camp the Ninth once built, that gave Pompey complete control of the coast and free passage in and out of the siege lines for forage and animal fodder. The siege had failed. Unless the general decided to leave, all they could hope for now was to force Pompey to commit to full battle and end the war here.

  Hopefully as the victors…

  Chapter 11

  Caesar arrived to an atmosphere of sullen dismay. The success of the Tenth and Seventh legions in forcing back Pompey’s attack and freeing the fort had given everyone time to breathe, but it had also given them time to think, which had left them pondering the inevitable. The sea walls stretch was lost, and there was little they could do about it. A rough estimate put the enemy numbers visible at perhaps ten or eleven legions in total, far too many to think about challenging. And the longer they stayed in command of that position, the stronger they would get, for they would no longer be cut off from adequate water and fodder. Though it had taken some time for the enemy skirmishers and light auxiliaries to return from their flight into the wilds, Galronus had spotted new cavalry brought in from the main camp. These were not the lightly armed auxiliaries he had terrified with his charge, but those same bright, bronze-clad horsemen of whom Fronto had spoken so highly on first sight.

  Caesar had arrived with two more legions, bringing the numerical total to five now, though in terms of manpower it would truly count more like three. The Fifth, Seventh, Ninth, Tenth and Thirteenth were now crammed in the fort and the circumvallation behind it, working on the defences to improve them, largely to keep them busy as the officers pondered their next move.

  ‘They have begun their own new systems of siege works, aimed at keeping us out and maintaining their control of the coast,’ Antonius said. ‘You can see odd parts of it from here, but the woods hide more. A few tentative scouting missions have confirmed the scale of their works. And with the number of men they have, their new defences are going up rapidly.’

  ‘So we are no longer familiar with the lay of the land there,’ Caesar mused.

  ‘No. And their men are everywhere. I can’t see a clear way out.’

  Fronto nodded. ‘There isn’t one. We’re outnumbered more than two to one, and I’ve seen the banners of a number of his veteran legions there. The First and the Third at the very least. And now he’s brought out his heavy horse too, which shows he means business. We’ve lost our grip on him, and now he has all the advantages. Caesar, we have to accept that this battle is no longer tenable.’

  The other officers turned surprised and disapproving looks on the Tenth’s legate, who was leaning on a chair back to take the weight off his knee, which was now bandaged and strapped up for support. Fronto shrugged. ‘There comes a time when common sense has to overcome heroism. We’ve managed valiantly so far, but I think we’re at the end of our run of good fortune. Unless someone can conjure up miracles, I think we need to cut our losses.’

  ‘You mean retreat?’ Sulla said in disbelief.

  ‘While we still have an army to do it with, yes.’

  ‘Then all this will have been in vain,’ Tillius put in.

  ‘Admittedly so, but there is an old adage about throwing good coins after bad. Is it worth sacrificing the rest of our army on the altar of hubris just because we don’t want to admit defeat.’

  Caesar’s eyes flashed. ‘I will not be defeated, Fronto.’

  ‘We have been defeated, Caesar,’ Fronto countered. ‘And there’s no shame in it. Pompey is acknowledged as one of Rome’s greatest military minds ever. To lose one fight against him is no dishonour, but at least if we accept that we can regroup, strengthen, and face him again with better odds.’

  ‘No,’ Caesar said coldly, with Sulla suddenly next to him, nodding his approval.

  ‘Caesar…’

  ‘No. We just need to break his control. We cut his forces in half and reconstitute the siege. Then we are at leisure to deal with those we trap outside while the rest return to his camp at Petra to die of thirst. We need to take one of those two forts. That would give us a stronghold in the centre.’

  ‘Marching five legions into the midst of twice that many will not divide them and conquer,’ Fronto growled. ‘That is like sending them into the maw of Tartarus. They will be overrun and destroyed. And one of those legions is mine. I don’t relish the thought of losing the Tenth.’

  ‘Fronto, your defeatist input to this discussion
is not welcome,’ Sulla snapped. ‘We are trying to work out how to beat the man, not run from him with our tail between our legs.’

  ‘I won’t lead the Tenth into certain death,’ Fronto snarled.

  ‘You won’t lead them anywhere,’ Sulla countered angrily. ‘Look at you. You’re hobbled, man. You can barely walk, let alone fight. Your command is up. Salvius leads the Tenth.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘Close enough, yes.’

  ‘Caesar?’

  The general held up a hand to quell the arguments.

  ‘Gentlemen, decorum please. Fronto, I owe you an apology for not heeding your warning in good time. Your instincts are good, and I appreciate your point of view in this matter. You may even be correct again, though I hope to Hades you are not. Whatever the case, I will not abandon this fight until there is no other option. You retain your command of the Tenth, Fronto, of course, but Sulla is correct that you are in no shape to lead them physically until that knee heals. Salvius Cursor will lead them in your stead for now. His particular brand of blind murderous glee is more or less what we shall need in the coming days.’

  Fronto sagged over the chair back. ‘Any push here is doomed. Believe me. Even with Salvius coated in blood and screaming curses at the front.’

  ‘Your opinion is noted,’ Caesar said with finality. ‘Now we need to plan. What is our prime target?’

  ‘The new camp he’s built, General,’ Tillius put in. ‘That way we can incorporate it into our system and seal him in again with relative ease.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ muttered Fronto under his breath, earning a number of hard looks and a silent warning from the general.

  ‘No. It has to be the inner camp’ Antonius said. ‘The one originally built by the Ninth. Scouts say he’s enlarged it a great deal, which suggests he means it to be a major base of operations. And it lies behind the woods. Gives us a more covert approach.’

  ‘Covert?,’ Fronto snorted. ‘Five legions? Might as well ring bells and blow whistles. Trees won’t hide you.’