Caesar nodded. ‘True. So we need to make our approach more subtle. No signals given that might attract the enemy. Just use standards and gestures for commands. We shall split the force and come against the fort in a two-pronged attack. Shuffle all the badly injured and immobile into a few cohorts and they can stay here and work on the defences, making a lot of noise and trying to look like several legions. If the enemy think we continue to work so, they will not be looking for an attack. Perhaps we can hit them by surprise.’
‘What about their cavalry?’ Brutus put in.
‘Sorry, Brutus?’
‘They have heavy cavalry there now, of a sort designed to kill a phalanx. As soon as any fight begins, Pompey is bound to field them, and they will be swift to involve themselves.’
Gaius Volusenus, the Prefect of Horse, nodded. ‘We can respond with our own cavalry. Send them in behind the infantry. We’ve brought most of the horse up now. We’re strong.’
‘No we’re not,’ Galronus said flatly.
‘What?’
‘Not there, we’re not. Through woodland and unknown defences. We could be trapped easily. Our cavalry are only effective in open ground.’
‘You’ve been around your friend Fronto too long, Gaul,’ Sulla grunted.
‘I am not a Gaul,’ Galronus replied with an arched eyebrow. ‘I am Remi.’
‘Whatever,’ snorted Sulla with a dismissive wave.
‘We will only field the cavalry once we are committed and the infantry have cleared the way,’ Caesar said. He reached up to the recent map on the wall, which was as close as they could manage to accurate.
‘I shall lead one force. I shall take sixteen cohorts to the left, here. We will move slowly and quietly through the woodlands. We shall sacrifice speed for silence. While we are doing that, Tillius will lead the second column of a similar number at higher speed far to the right, using this river bed as a track to move fast. They will skirt the enemy fort and come at it from the north, inside the enemy’s region of control. The cavalry will follow them, for the river bed should make their approach easier. If we time things correctly, my force should hit the south and east of the fort at the same time that of Tillius hits the north. If we achieve an adequate element of surprise, we might overrun them before they can do anything about it. Once we are ensconced there, more troops can be brought in from the far lines and we can seal the gap once more.’
Galronus gave an almost insolent nod, and slipped away from the gathering as the details began to be hammered out. Fronto followed him after a moment and found the Remi standing in the evening air and breathing deeply.
‘This is one attack I am grateful not to be part of,’ Fronto said quietly. ‘My knee may have done me a favour.’
‘We are going to lose,’ Galronus said.
‘Yes. Don’t go. You don’t have to. Volusenus is Prefect of Horse. Let him do it.’
‘Some of these units have been in my command for many years,’ Galronus said. ‘Some came through Alesia with me. It would be poor repayment for me to abandon them now.’
‘Don’t get yourself killed. My sister would never forgive me.’
‘Is there not a chance?’ Brutus said suddenly, behind them, having approached unnoticed. ‘None at all?’
Fronto sighed. ‘Caesar has pulled victories from the backside of defeat before now,’ Fronto admitted. ‘But this is different. Pompey is clever. And he’s prepared. Even if Caesar takes him by surprise, he’ll react quickly. I cannot see this turning out well.’
* * *
Salvius Cursor changed hands with his sword for a moment, wiping his sweaty palm on his tunic before returning the blade to the correct hand. He was more surprised than anyone to find that he was uncertain. Stupid, really. This was exactly the plan he would have suggested himself, and to find that he was one of the most senior officers engaged in it, effectively in control of those cohorts drawn from the Tenth, was an honour. Moreover he would, if everything went right, get his chance to plant a blade in a dozen Pompeian hearts and help secure the old bastard once more where he could starve. All was good. And yet a nagging little voice at the back of his mind kept telling him that something was wrong. That he needed to be prepared and on his guard. Perhaps it was just Fronto’s attitude. Or worse, his last words before the tribune had led the men out of camp.
‘Bring the Tenth home, Salvius. Don’t get my legion killed.’
Damn it, but that had put something on his shoulders he really didn’t need at a time like this.
Caesar led the column. Actually led it, as though he were a legionary himself. Admittedly there were half a dozen praetorian horsemen with him for protection, but it was still impressive, given that Pompey had never taken the forwards position in his life. In addition to Salvius, Volcatius Tullus and Sulla himself moved forwards with their legions, the latter in a more traditional position, bringing up the rear of his force. A legion approaching, let alone two, was hardly a quiet thing, and yet he’d been impressed at how subtle they were. The crunch, clonk and rattle of soldiers on the move was partially deadened by the woods around them, and he doubted anyone up ahead would have much warning of their approach.
Still, he was feeling less than confident with regard to the coming fight. Damn it, but he was starting to catch it from Fronto. At this rate, within a year or two he’d be a soft old bugger like the legate.
His attention was drawn by movement ahead, and he spotted one of the advance scouts suddenly appearing back through the trees, waving his arms. He then gestured to the right with both hands and motioned that the enemy were as yet unaware. Good. Things were going as planned. All Salvius had to do was kill as many Pompeians as he could.
And not get the Tenth killed.
Damn it, Fronto.
Caesar turned and gave his signals, which were picked up by the standard bearers of each unit, guiding their soldiers from the eight-man column into a much wider front for the attack. As he passed through one of the areas of the woods with slightly sparser trees, Salvius looked up at the sun. It was almost at the apex. The enemy would be about ready to change guard on the hour, and every man would be focused on the coming midday meal. If ever the defenders were going to be unprepared, it was now. And if all was going according to plan then the second column, closely followed by the cavalry, would be approaching the camp’s north gate now.
Why, then, was he so worried?
In the camp, the blast of a horn announced the next watch. Perfect timing.
Barely had the last echo of the instrument washed over the woods before Salvius and the rest of Caesar’s attack burst from the tree line to find themselves only a hundred paces from the enemy camp. Best of all, the Pompeians had been entirely unaware of the approach of the Caesarian force. The walls showed perhaps half as many guards as Salvius had expected, for it was the change of guard shifts, and men were busy coming and going.
With a bellow from the general, the entire force, fifteen cohorts strong, let loose a roar to shake the heavens. The ramparts were some ten feet high but the enemy, in constructing the new, larger fort, had been lax. They had not sheared off the rampart at the exterior, and so left a slope. A steep one, admittedly, but enough for a man to climb. Furthermore, as Salvius ran on, he noted that the wide ditch around the place had not yet been filled with spikes or obstructions. They were too overconfident in their security. The other officers and men had clearly noted all this too, for the roar only increased in intensity, and the officers all across the line directed their men to parts of the walls. Little would stop the Caesarians from crossing that line unless the enemy somehow suddenly flooded the ramparts with men and artillery.
In two dozen heartbeats he had crossed the open ground. Missiles began to fly from the fort: stones, arrows and heavy bolts, but only in small numbers and inexpertly launched. Salvius, screaming incoherently, reached the ditch and barely paused, leaping into it, swiftly followed by Atenos and the men of the Tenth. Across the wide ditch they ran, then to the steep
rampart. Up they scrabbled, grasping at earth and grass and timbers to aid their climb. The enemy had managed to get more men to the walls now, and some armed with pila, but they did not throw them, instead using them like spears to thrust down at the soldiers coming at them. A quick glance to the left revealed a cohort of the Seventh hitting the gate like a wave of angry bronze and red.
Salvius did not have the luxury of time to watch their endeavours. Instead, he joined the swarm of men reaching the rampart and surrendered his will to the god of war. A legionary appeared at the top of the wooden palisade above him and reached over, jabbing down awkwardly with his gladius. Salvius instinctively ducked to one side, then, with his free hand, grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled. He heard the wrench as the legionary’s shoulder dislocated, and tried to ignore the screams as he used the arm as a rope to pull himself up to the parapet, where he deftly kicked the young soldier in the head, ruining his face with hobnails, and pushed him away, looking for the next challenge.
Two more legionaries were coming for him now, one from each side. They were young. Whoever the legion in charge of the fort was, they weren’t veterans but young pups with a month or two’s training. Salvius taught them a hard lesson. Waiting until they were almost on him, yelling their fury, he simply stepped back onto the embankment behind the walls, and the two men collided in a crash of panic. He left them no time to recover, launching a series of lightning fast blows of which probably the first two had been enough to kill, though Salvius liked to be sure. He blinked away the blood that has fountained into his face, then turned. The walls were already under control. The men of the Tenth and Seventh were surging over them, fighting off the meagre defence. The centre of the great square was largely open ground, awaiting the tents of whichever legions were destined to be based here, but over in one corner, Salvius could see the original camp the Ninth had built, occupying a quarter of the larger installation, but still separated from the rest by its own wall, and host to the tents of the defenders. There, the enemy were gathering for a more formidable contest.
Salvius knew his place. Barely had the signallers begun to give out the general’s command before the tribune, followed by a group of his legionaries, raced around the walls for that next fight.
A man in a prefect’s uniform was directing the fight from there, arraying his men, and Salvius marked the man as the most senior on site, and therefore the most important to target. The enemy commander was clearly a veteran, even if his men were not, for as soon as it had become clear that the walls of the main camp were too poorly-constructed and defended to hold, he had drawn back every man he could to hold the small fort within its bounds. The gate there had been shut and barred, but the smaller fort had two weak spots: it was readily accessible where its walls joined those of the larger camp, and so it was at these two spots that the defenders were massing. That would be more of a fight.
Salvius continued to jog along the wall top, dodging the other Caesarian troops as they poured over, skirting small struggles and here and there swiping his blade at the enemies he passed in a half-hearted, opportunistic manner.
He was halfway to the small fort when he realised that Atenos was running beside him. He still did not know what to make of the Tenth’s huge, blond senior centurion. The man was clearly little more than a Gaul, his Latin still accented and his chin showing a beard even beneath the cheek plates of his helmet. And this barbarian was one of Fronto’s close friends, which meant he was probably more given to yapping than fighting. Yet from what he’d seen of the big man in combat, he seemed fearsome. Well, they would need fearsome today.
‘We punch through the defenders as hard as we can. Once we’re inside that fort they’re lost’
Atenos nodded. ‘That prefect is mine, though, Tribune.’
‘I beg to differ,’ Salvius barked. ‘I marked him first.’
‘That’s Titus Pullo. Used to be a centurion in the Fourteenth, then the Eleventh. I’ve fought alongside the bastard.’
‘Pullo?’ Salvius said in surprise. ‘The man who betrayed Antonius last winter?’
‘The very bastard. Cost us most of our strength in Illyria.’
‘Then you’ll have to race me to him,’ Salvius said.
Both men put on an extra turn of speed, the legionaries of the Tenth panting behind them to keep up. As they neared the point where both walls met, Pullo, now the enemy prefect, pulled his men into a shield wall three deep. He was no idiot, and put the bulk of his men between him and the screaming officers of the Tenth running his way.
The Caesarians hit like a battering ram, punching into the enemy shield wall so hard that even the rearmost men staggered back and a few toppled away down the embankment. Not Pullo. He kept his feet and kept his place. Salvius went to work stabbing, slashing and hacking, his blade rising and falling like a butcher’s cleaver, warm blood spraying out across the air. He took a couple of minor blows, which was inevitable, especially with no shield, but Salvius did not fear for his life. He knew he was protected by Mars. Had not the god of war saved him in the old days? Saved him from Pompey?
Beside him, Atenos was similarly brutal, using every weapon available, right down to feet, knees and even teeth. They were making headway, and the rest of the legionaries from the Tenth that had followed them around the walls were joining in now, but it would be slow work even then. With such a narrow point of entry it was easy to defend, and they needed to take the fort fast, lest Pompey commit men to the fight and they be swamped.
He wondered momentarily why there had been no sign yet of the second column. If they were on schedule with the plan, they should have been attacking from the north at the same time Salvius had hit the south. Yet there was no sign of them.
That sinking feeling that had been there on the journey returned suddenly. Fronto had been right again. This was a fool’s errand. Almost as if he had summoned disaster, sudden calls blared out from buccinae beyond the wall. Salvius took a moment, stepped back from the fight and allowed a legionary to take his place as he shook his head to clear his vision a little. Then he crossed to the wall top, where he was looking southwest.
‘Oh, Hades.’
Men were coming at speed. Fresh legionaries, in numbers that brought a touch of panic to even Salvius. What were there: four legions? Five? Veteran ones too, by the looks of it. And the Caesarian force at the fort numbered roughly a legion and a half until the others arrived from wherever they were. The odds were about to tip horribly in the enemy’s favour. Unless they could do something, they were going to be trapped in this fort by forces in total three times their size. That would be it. He was sure they couldn’t get out of that. And as it that were not bad enough, a thunderous rumble joined the horn calls, and he caught sight of the Illyrian heavy cavalry, clad in bronze, beyond those new, fresh legions.
His gaze slipped to the north.
‘Where are you?’ he murmured in a dark voice.
* * *
Galronus felt all hope slipping away like a loose river bank in a storm. The sun had passed the apex some time ago and he was fairly sure he’d heard horn calls through the woods. They were late to dinner, and soon there would be nothing left but scraps. And the worst of it was that he was totally impotent to do anything about it.
Tillius was in charge, way out ahead at the front of the force, largely made up of men from the Fifth and Thirteenth, with a cohort from the Ninth in there too. They had marched along the river bed at a more sedate pace than Galronus had expected. And though his place was with the cavalry at the rear, waiting to be given the all clear to race past and engage an enemy, he was beginning to believe that Tillius was lost and too pig-headed to admit it.
‘I’m going ahead,’ he said to the nearest decurion, who nodded his understanding. A moment later, Galronus was hurtling along the dry river bed alongside the column of men, raising dust beneath his hooves that drew angry curses from the men it engulfed as he passed. It took some time to pass seventeen cohorts, but finally he spotted the
commanders on their horses at the head of the column. Kicking his steed for a turn of speed, he raced towards them and even as he fell in alongside Tillius and opened his mouth to speak, his eyes took in their surroundings and he blinked.
‘Where the shit are we?’
Tillius frowned. ‘North wall. Looking for the gate, Commander. It must be along here. Strange that there’s no defenders, eh? But all the better for us.’
‘That’s not the fort,’ Galronus said in an exasperated tone.
‘What?’
The Remi turned and pointed off ahead, along the river. ‘You see that blue wobbly thing over there? That’s the sea.’
‘I’m well aware of that.’ Tillius replied in a scathing voice.
‘Then we’re way past the fort and near the shore. We passed it half an hour ago, I reckon. I head a horn call back then, I think.’
‘If this is not the fort, then what is it?’ snapped Tillius, pointing at the ramparts through two dozen paces of woodland on their left.
‘I don’t know,’ shouted Galronus angrily, ‘but the enemy have been building all sorts of new defences since we pulled back, and this goes down to the sea, so whatever it is, it’s not the damned fort”’
‘Then we’ll have to turn around,’ Tillius said, anger in his tone, but his face beginning to flush with embarrassment. This would not go down well with the general.
‘You can’t,’ Galronus bellowed. ‘Fifteenth cohorts, and behind them the cavalry and all along a single dry river bed? Idiot. Just getting them turned round and starting moving again will take at least half an hour.’
‘Then we shall take these walls and see what lies beyond,’ announced Tillius.
‘What?’
‘Well if we’ve somehow missed the fort, probably through the faults of your scout riders, then our best chance is to break through whatever these defences are and see what the terrain is like on the far side. Perhaps we can find open ground. Perhaps we will be able to see the fort and return to our primary task.’
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 17
