‘Where do we go, sir?’ Brutus said quietly.
‘East. Or more precisely, southeast,’ the general replied. ‘We link up with those forces we sent into Macedonia and Achaea, adding them to our strength. If we can manage to persuade Scipio to join us, we add his forces, and if not, then we outnumber him severely. If we can pin him down, we can remove him from the game board and weaken Pompey. Most of all, those regions have largely gone over to us with the sterling work of the commanders we sent there. That being the case, we can gather further supplies, recruit more men to make up for the losses, and prepare. Rebuild and prepare. Such that when Pompey reaches us, we are ready for him.’
Fronto smiled. It was one of Caesar’s most formidable talents: to take a bleak situation and inject it with hope. And he could see that hope beginning to spread to the faces of those around him, too.
‘I shall require my senior staff to attend a further meeting at the fifth watch, during which we will plan the withdrawal from Dyrrachium in detail. In the meantime, I want you all wracking your brains for the best way to pull out of the lines without alerting Pompey to our intentions. Sadly, I must deal with something unpleasant first, but I cannot put it off any longer. You are dismissed until the fifth watch, all except Tillius. I need a word.’
The officers filed out, and as they did so, Fronto found a small knot of men awaiting him not far from the tent – the men he’d sent for before the briefing. He nodded at them as he limped from the headquarters. ‘Can we talk in your tent, Ingenuus?’
The three-fingered cavalryman who commanded Caesar’s bodyguard nodded and led the way to his tent which stood twenty paces from his general’s. Salvius Cursor and Atenos followed on, and dipped in through the door. Once inside, Ingenuus lit two lamps to push back the gloom and sat on a campaign chair, folding his arms.
‘What’s this about Fronto?’
‘The general. I don’t know what your men have said to you Aulus, but a number of them witnessed Caesar’s “rescue” from the enemy camp. I need to set the record straight. Caesar has not spoken of it, but I suspect he will confer with me shortly and before he does I want things clear. Salvius? Atenos? Would you like to describe the general’s last few moments during the battle to me, before you delivered him to his tent?’
Salvius Cursor cleared his throat. ‘I wondered if he was going to die. There was something wrong with him. He was shaking wildly and foaming at the mouth like a lunatic.’
Atenos nodded. ‘Thrashing about, he was. One moment he was healthy and yelling at the men to stand and fight, the next he was shaking. I thought perhaps he had gone mad with fury.’
Fronto nodded. Fortunately, the army had been in such utter chaos as they fled the blades of Pompey’s men that the two officers and the praetorians protecting Caesar had managed to get him onto a horse and covered with a cloak so that the gathered soldiery were entirely unaware of the shaking general being conveyed past them to safety. The guards had taken him straight to his tent and laid him in his bed. Fronto had been standing at the gate as the army poured back in to safety, and had spotted the small group of officers and praetorians as they arrived, falling in with them and following. Once at Caesar’s tent, he had sent them all away and held the general down, forcing a leather belt between his teeth. It had not taken long for Caesar to stop shaking and lie still. The worst of the fit had been over long before he had reached his tent. Once Fronto was content that the fit was done and Caesar was in no further danger, he’d sent for a medicus and left the general in his care, telling him he had been overrun during the flight.
Fronto pursed his lips. ‘The general suffers from an illness that is somewhat sporadic. It strikes him down on rare occasions and displays itself as you saw yesterday. Foaming, thrashing, eyes rolling, inability to speak. Yet when it passes he is perfectly healthy once more. What I need you all to understand is that this is purely physical and far from critical. It is an ongoing condition that does not threaten the general’s life and is not increasing in any way over time. It is not an omen. It is not a punishment from the gods. It is simply a bodily condition, like my knee, or Ingenuus’ fingers. I need to be very clear on this point.’
The other three men were frowning, and Fronto shrugged. ‘The general made it abundantly clear to me that his condition needs to remain a secret. Entire wars have been lost because of bad omens that infect the morale of the men. We cannot afford to have the legions even think that Caesar is cursed in some way. He is not, and if this becomes widely-known, our army could suffer. Morale is low enough as it is without them finding out about this. Do you understand?’
The three men nodded, which came as something of a relief to Fronto. Atenos he was sure of, and Ingenuus was utterly loyal, but he’d not been certain that Salvius Cursor would accept it so readily.
‘Alexander,’ Salvius said.
‘What?’
‘The illness you describe, and what we saw yesterday. They say Alexander of Macedon suffered the same.’
Fronto nodded. ‘I believe so.’
‘Alexander died very young,’ Atenos said, frowning.
‘But not from that. From a fever.’
‘True.’
Fronto turned to Ingenuus specifically. ‘Good. The four of us are in concord. This needs to remain between us. But what of your men?’
Ingenuus’ frown deepened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘A number of your guardsmen witnessed it. Can you trust them to keep this secret?’
The prefect gave him a disapproving look. ‘Fronto, my men are hand chosen by me. They are each and every one utterly loyal to Caesar. Remember, they do not take an oath to Rome or the senate, or to an eagle. They take their oath to Caesar alone. Their fidelity is unquestionable. I shall speak to those men involved and make sure this does not spread, but you have my word that they will keep the secret to the grave.’
Fronto sagged. ‘Good. Sorry I had to have this little clandestine meeting, but you understand, I’m sure. At some point today, Caesar is going to summon me, and possibly you three, and I wanted to be sure that all was settled beforehand. Nothing awkward and no chance of misunderstanding or argument.’
A few moments later they left the prefect’s tent, and Fronto and his two officers began to wander back towards the pen where their horses waited. As they passed before Caesar’s tent, Tillius emerged, suddenly, marching forcefully away. He ignored them entirely and stormed past them, face pale and mouth set in a straight line.
‘I fear the legate just had his backside tanned like a child,’ Atenos said, once Tilius was out of earshot.
‘Good,’ Salvius spat. ‘He deserves to be nailed up for what he did yesterday. He is the principle reason we lost.’
‘Legate Tillius is leaving Dyrrachium,’ said a reedy voice behind them, and they turned to find Aulus Hirtius, Caesar’s secretary, stepping from the general’s tent. ‘The legate is returning to Italia, with his legion.’
Fronto blinked. ‘The Fifth? Why?’
‘The Fifth lost too many men yesterday to consider them a viable command in the coming conflict. They are being sent to Italia to recruit and train up, and they are not alone. The Twelfth and Thirteenth are also to cross to Italia and rebuild. The healthy men that remain in those three legions are being transferred to others, and those men from any legion who cannot reasonably take part in the coming campaign will be shuffled into the Fifth, Twelfth or Thirteenth and sent home.’
Fronto nodded. It was a sensible solution, really, and not the decrease in strength it appeared. And Tillius’ career was over. Men had failed Caesar before, and sometimes disastrously so, yet they were usually upbraided in private, or at worst disciplined in the open. To be sent home in disgrace was an entirely different matter. By the time he reached Rome, the man would be a pariah, untouchable. Only disgraced retirement awaited him. Fronto found it hard to feel sympathy, regardless. Barely had Hirtius moved off before the headquarters door opened again and Caesar emerged, pale in the sunlight. H
e looked surprised for a moment to see the three men gathered together, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. ‘Fronto. Good. I shall want to see you later. Perhaps half an hour before the meeting?’
Fronto nodded. ‘Of course, General.’
‘Good,’ Caesar said again, eyes still narrowed. ‘Time to discipline a few standard bearers of my recent acquaintance.’ And with an air of purposeful ire, he stalked away.
‘I wouldn’t want to be those standard bearers for all the silver in Hispania,’ Salvius said quietly, and the other two nodded their profound agreement. They retrieved their horses and set off back to the southern lines where the Tenth had now replaced the shattered Ninth as the furthest strongpoint under Caesarian control, at the edge of the hills and some way from the sea. They rode through the gate of the camp, the legionaries on guard swinging the timbers wide for access, and dismounted at the centre. There seemed to be fewer soldiers milling about than Fronto expected, and he frowned.
‘Where is everyone?’ Salvius Cursor asked, pre-empting his question.
‘I have no idea.’
Atenos, stamping life back into the feet that he much preferred to a horse, collared a soldier who emerged from his tent in a hurry.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘At the west wall, sir,’ the soldier said, nervously. When Atenos simply furrowed his brow and turned to Fronto, the legionary scurried off.
‘Come on,’ the legate muttered, and the three men strode off towards the western gate, Fronto lagging a little with his limp. As they approached the ramparts closest to the Pompeian defences, they could see legionaries crowding the wall top, peering out into the lost territory. Soldiers moved respectfully aside as the three officers climbed the embankment to the parapet, and a space opened up for them to stand in.
It took a moment for Fronto to realise what it was they were watching, but when he did, his gorge rose.
On a ridge just out of bowshot, Pompeian legionaries had amassed. Before them knelt a long line of soldiers with their hands bound behind their backs. Even as Fronto understood what was happening, a Pompeian blade slammed into the next legionary, driving down through the flesh and organs in a quick but agonising death. They were being executed. Already fifty or so men lay prostrate, the victims of the killers behind. Another hundred or so awaited their fate, trembling on their knees.
Fronto felt rage rising within him. This was not acceptable, even in war, especially not when they were all brothers under the eagle. A small, unpleasant part of his mind reminded him that at least they were dying a quick soldier’s death, unlike those men who had been crucified up by Lissus, but a favourable comparison still didn’t make it acceptable.
His eyes strained to pick out details. He couldn’t tell what units the men were from, but they were likely from every legion who had taken part in the failed attack. That meant there would be men of the Tenth there. No wonder everyone was at the walls. It was just a miracle some hot-headed centurion hadn’t just decided to launch an attack against the execution party.
‘We need to save them,’ Salvius Cursor said.
Of course. It was certainly a damn good job Salvius hadn’t been here, or they’d all have been out of the gate and running screaming at the enemy long before Fronto arrived.
‘No.’
‘We can’t let this happen.’
‘We have to,’ Fronto said. ‘There are too many of them out there. We’d just end up supplying them with a few more lines of kneeling men.’
‘Legate…’
‘The answer is no, Salvius. I don’t expect you to like it. I don’t like it either, but I won’t sacrifice the rest of the Tenth for revenge.’
The tribune fell into an angry silence, and Fronto could almost feel the man restraining his bitten-back words. Instead, they watched in wordless bitterness as good men died painful deaths on the rise before them. It was then that Fronto realised that he recognised the officer presiding over them, and he felt his own anger rise to unprecedented levels.
‘The bastard.’
‘What, sir?’ Atenos asked, frowning.
‘That’s Titus Labienus. I cannot believe the bastard’s doing this. That’s not the Labienus I remember. What’s happened to him?’
‘I don’t know,’ Salvius replied, ‘but I do know what’s happening to them.’
‘You’re not going out there, Tribune,’ Fronto said with an air of finality.
But deep down, Fronto wanted nothing more than to plunge his blade into Labienus’s black heart. He could almost understand his old friend’s defection. He could perhaps even understand his pursuance of war as a solution and his unwilling to countenance a peace with Caesar. But the execution of captive legionaries? This Labienus was a different man to the one Fronto had known in the fields and hills of the Belgae. A man who had lamented the near genocide of a people at the tips of Roman swords. This was a darker man. Unforgiving and cold.
Without realising it, Fronto had added Labienus to the list of those who had to go, along with Ahenobarbus.
On the hill opposite, another man died.
* * *
Fronto sat astride Bucephalus, almost vibrating with nervous energy. Perhaps the gods were with them. He had to hope so. The night sky, which had been clear for so many days, was now a high fleecy blanket that blotted out the stars and hid the silvery rays of the moon. The light cloud had rolled in late in the afternoon as if called by the general for the very purpose of obfuscation.
With difficulty he tore his gaze from the line of Pompey’s fortifications, marked out in the pitch blank only by the torches burning along the parapet. Occasionally, the torches winked off and on, obliterated by the shadows of men passing in front of them. Nothing exciting was happening there.
It might yet work.
He wondered how far the baggage had got.
He heard Pompey’s calls across the dark world, announcing the fourth watch and carefully positioned musicians on horseback blew the same calls all along the Caesarian lines, right down to the musician twenty paces from Fronto. Almost as if in answer to the time call, a faint purple began to show itself in the east, announcing that dawn was approaching, less than two hours away.
The baggage would move slowly, of course. It was in the nature of ox-drawn wagons and carts to rattle along at an interminable pace, and it was these that slowed any army on campaign. But they had a lead of half a night now, and each wagon had had its team doubled up at the expense of the cavalry’s spare horses and any beasts that could be commandeered from the surrounding area at short notice. They would move slowly, but faster than normal, at least. Preparations having been made in secret behind the ramparts, enemy attention diverted by the judicious use of distractions and diversions, the baggage, supplies and artillery had been sent out shortly after nightfall with orders to make for Apollonia with all haste and not to stop even to rest the animals. Even then it would probably take them the best part of three days to cover the forty miles of the journey. Two at the very least. The Seventh had gone with the column as its escort, hurrying out towards the southeast as quickly yet as quietly as possible. And every man’s non-critical equipment had gone with the carts to enable the legions to move swift, lightly equipped.
Now, as Fronto’s gaze moved back across his own lines to the safe countryside beyond, he could see the army on the move. Following on after the distant wagons, the pride of Caesar’s military was departing through every gate, merging on the road and moving with what stealth a legion could manage. Men’s boots were wrapped with wool to deaden the sound. The horses wore similar overshoes. Weapons were kept tightly strapped to keep them from knocking about too much and even the eagles and standards were packed away to prevent their obvious burden. It had been done well, because he had to strain to hear the departing army, and if he couldn’t hear it well here, then it was unlikely that Pompey’s army would hear it from their lines. Once the column was a safe distance away they would drop the coverings and sacrifice stealth for speed, racin
g for Apollonia, where the wounded would be left to await transport to Italia.
All the army had gone from the siege lines now, with the exception of two legions. The Tenth and the Ninth had been the ones left behind as long as possible in order to maintain the fiction that the Caesarian lines were still fully manned and that nothing untoward was happening. The legions would catch up with the wagons soon enough, but at least they had each been given what head start could be afforded. Even Caesar had gone with the army, along with the bulk of the cavalry, most of whom were currently on foot. Only the two legions remained behind, scattered around the defences. Dispatch riders were stationed all along the lines ready to pass the word for departure to every unit.
He watched the men of the Tenth at this camp with an element of pride. The soldiers had had not a wink of sleep, instead marching up and down the walls and trying to make enough noise to sound like ten times their number. They had even engaged in fictitious changes of watch, replacing each other and dipping down behind the walls for moments to make it look as realistic as possible. Their task was to keep the ruse going as long as possible and buy the army ample time to get far from the siege works. When Pompey found out his besiegers had gone, he would have to decide between letting them go and following on when his supplies and forces were ready, or chasing them down and stretching his logistics to breaking point. The plan was good, Fronto had to admit, though, knowing Pompey, he knew what result he would put money on.
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 20
