Once more, the legions of Caesar had abandoned their camp before dawn and moved on to Apollonia. While Pompey had kept his men from becoming too scattered this time, it would still take them precious time to funnel the huge force across the river, and when they did, the enemy legions would be exhausted, malnourished and in poor spirits from their late night and early start on emergency supplies.
And yet, despite everything seemingly going according to plan, something was nagging at Fronto. It was all going too well. Too easily. They had become confident and complacent at Dyrrachium, believing Pompey contained and settled, and the dangerous old bastard had caught Caesar in the latrine with his subligaculum down, destroying the siege that had taken so much work to put in place. Fronto had that strange feeling that something was not going right, though he’d not been able to pin down what it might be, so at every briefing or meeting, he had constantly warned against overconfidence, reminding them of Pompey’s shrewd military mind.
As the men of the Tenth moved off to camp just south of the city along with the bulk of the legions, Fronto ignored the rest of the officers making for the heart of the urban sprawl to settle into comfortable quarters, instead dropping from Bucephalus with a grunt of pain, tying the great black beast to a rail and limping up the steps of the gatehouse to the wall top.
He was alone there, apart from a couple of men on guard, the officers having all moved into the town. Apollonia was garrisoned by those wounded who would heal fully in due course and could still function in the meantime, but whose inclusion would slow the ongoing march if they remained with the column. Fronto nodded at the two men, who saluted and stood carefully to attention in the presence of a senior officer. Ignoring them further, he leaned on the parapet and peered out to the north. The view was unrestricted hills or forests for miles, the flat farmland stretching out before them as the last of Caesar’s army closed on the city and settled into camps. There had been no rain for some time, and the dust cloud raised by the army continued to billow in their wake, the only thing that marred the panorama from the wall.
Just the settling dust cloud.
Fronto pursed his lips. The dust cloud. He needed a better view. Turning, he looked up at the city behind him. Apollonia was built on the slope of a great hill at the southern edge of the flat farmland, the river Apsus looping along nearby, cutting through that lush green land to the north. At the top of the urban conglomeration sat an archaic citadel, an acropolis of the ancient Greek city. Given the hill and the large walls, it would be offer the best views of the plain.
Trying not to curse the pain in his knee, Fronto shuffled back down and mounted Bucephalus once more, trotting along the cobbled road up the slope of the town, past the seemingly endless side streets and tightly packed housing built to the contours of the hill in an old Greek manner rather than an ordered grid of Roman design. He passed a grand nymphaeum with colourful and graceful statuary, and finally reached the acropolis. The fortification was no longer used as such, housing a solid-looking temple and a few warehouses that had been built up against the ancient defensive walls. He found a set of steps that led up and dismounted once more, tethering Bucephalus and grunting and wincing his way to the wall top.
By the time he leaned over the ancient, crumbling parapet and overcame a moment of dizziness at the impressive drop on the far side, the legions had largely arrived and moved into their positions to make camp, just the last few cohorts closing in. The dust cloud was slowly settling across the landscape, but from this lofty position the dust was little more than a carpet.
Here he could see beyond it for some way, much further than from the more recent city walls below. In fact, he was willing to bet he could see almost all fifteen miles to the river where they had camped last night. He could certainly see the wide saddle between two ridges that they had passed through in the mid-morning.
And the thought that had occurred to him down on the lower wall was confirmed with this view.
There was no dust cloud to the north.
A quarter of an hour later, he limped into the bouleuterion, the city’s council chamber that was serving temporarily as Caesar’s meeting room. The general was seated in a curule chair facing the semicircular seating rows, half a dozen of the other officers in place around that arc. Whatever they were discussing, they fell silent as Fronto stepped into the chamber, his nailed boots slipping, scraping and clacking on the exquisite, ancient marble.
‘Fronto?’ Caesar’s drawn face turned to him.
‘Pompey has abandoned the chase.’
The general nodded. ‘I had a feeling he would. He is fighting his own instincts now. He would want nothing more than to press the attack, but he knows at what a disadvantage that would put him, so he breaks off the chase. Good.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Fronto replied. ‘At least when he was following us, we knew where he was and that he was getting weaker. Now we have no idea where he is going or what he is up to. I warned you that he would be unpredictable. He’s clever.’
‘He is clever, Marcus, though I am far from foolish myself.’
Fronto frowned, and the general smiled that infuriating smile. ‘You’ve not been paying attention to the numbers as we marched, clearly. Even now a cohort of ours that slipped back north past Pompey will be closing on Lissus where they will cut off any of Pompey’s support and supplies from the north. Three cohorts are now in residence ahead of us at Oricum, securing a landing point for further supplies and men that is much more convenient for crossings from Italia, should we need to make use of it. We leave four cohorts to hold Apollonia and at dawn tomorrow we march into Achaea to collect the forces that are at work there under Calenus and Calvinus. With them we will be strong again, and by that time, our legions will be ready for the fray. Then we move on Pompey once more.’
‘If we can find him,’ Fronto muttered, ‘and if he’s not got any surprises for us.’
‘Really, Marcus, you are such a pessimist. We have taken the most disastrous defeat since Gergovia and in a matter of days we have turned it around, making Pompey hungry and miserable while our men strengthen by the day ready to fight him.’
Fronto nodded. ‘All the same, I don’t think Pompey is going to settle back into Dyrrachium now. I’d prefer to know what he’s up to.’
‘Get some rest, Fronto. We’ll be moving out early.’
* * *
The journey from Apollonia was interminable. Seemingly endless stretches of brown and grey mountains and sparse vegetation, hot, searing days and steaming nights all overlaid, for the officers, with a layer of tension and uncertainty.
Caesar had relented to Fronto’s pleas and sent out small groups of fast, highly mobile scouts garnered from the local towns and with good regional and geographic knowledge to track Pompey’s movements. The best they could ascertain was that the enemy had returned to the north bank of the Genusus River and followed it east, deep into Macedonian lands. Whether he meant to link up with Scipio or find a convenient place to turn south and cut off the Caesarian march no one could say, for with the ever-increasing distance between the two forces, the value of scouts rapidly became nullified.
So Caesar’s army pressed on southeast into the great world of Achaea, seeking the forces operating there under Calenus and Calvinus, less aware even of their location than of Pompey’s. Rumour put Calenus far to the south near Athens, securing the ancient powerhouse states of Greece against Pompey. Calvinus seemed to have ranged far and wide, and word of his location was nebulous, placing him in a dozen places across the land.
Taking the most secure and direct route to the heart of Greece, the irony was not lost on Fronto that Caesar’s legions were marching up the Aous valley, just as those of Titus Flamininus had done a century and a half ago in pursuit of Philip of Macedon. He wondered on occasion whether Caesar saw himself as a new Flamininus, a new saviour and conqueror. But Fronto was no fool, and he knew Caesar of old. Among the old man’s more prevalent faults was an unshakable self-belief
, bordering on egomania. If anything, Caesar would already see himself as surpassing Flamininus in his achievements.
The Aous did little to diminish the tension. Its gradual deepening, with the peaks to each side becoming high and oppressive, left the officers under no illusion that they were safe. Somewhere to the north lay Pompey’s army, and the man was ever tricky. If he had managed to anticipate Caesar’s plans and sacrificed strength for speed, his men could be hidden by any of these peaks even now. It was a little like walking into a room blindfolded, knowing there was a pit in the floor somewhere.
The men moved on heedless of the potential danger. By Caesar’s explicit command, no matter how uncertain or nervous the officers might be, they were to control it and wear a mask of utter confidence in front of the men. Morale was now as high as it had been at any point since the disaster of Dyrrachium, and with the potential cataclysm coming their way, their spirits needed to remain high.
Still, tense as they were, Fronto and his compatriots marched on unmolested, ever deeper into the Greek world. They passed the wide blue span of the Pambotis Lake where the legionaries relished every break in the march, splashing and drinking, bathing and laughing, seeing only the clear, inviting waters, while the officers instead saw the distant hazy blue-grey slopes on the far side that could hide ten thousand men with ease, and the dead white trees reaching up along the shore like imploring skeletal arms thrust up through the earth.
The journey went on, the summer gradually sliding away, the men becoming aware that the height of the season was almost upon them and that after that, unless they brought Pompey to battle favourably, they would be wintering deep in the Achaean peninsula.
From the lake, they turned of necessity due east, climbing to the Katara Pass, a height that surprised Fronto, and one of the loftiest mountain crossings he had traversed in his time. Here, despite the searing sun of mid-summer, the peaks were still sheathed in glittering white, foreboding and lofty. Despite the best efforts of the officers to keep morale high, Fronto could feel the change in the men as it happened, sliding from easy confidence to worry and discomfort. The journey was beginning to sap the spirit from the legions, especially now, with this new troublesome terrain. Moreover, since they were now travelling with the baggage and supply wagons, the pace had gradually slowed with the incline, further dragging at every man’s spirit.
Any other year, Fronto might not have been so concerned. But so much in the coming days would rely upon the mood of the men, and the spirit they had gained since the disaster, their most precious commodity, was beginning to slip. Fronto did not want to countenance meeting Pompey’s army in these stark mountains with the legions in the mood into which they seemed to be descending. Something had to change soon.
Then, one morning when the sun beat down mercilessly, burning and bronzing skin despite the chill in the air from the mountainous terrain, paradise appeared before them.
Fronto had ridden ahead to join the officers at the van and, passing around a loose rock formation, the world opened up before them to reveal a new type of valley from those through which they had been passing for what seemed like months. This valley was wide, and the bottom flat, cultivated with green farmland. Small settlements lay dotted along the valley side, unlike the bleak timber villages they had seen in the mountains, clinging to grey cliffs as though to prevent tumbling into the chasms below.
Farms…
Farms meant that the lowlands were close and the mountains coming to an end. Fronto could feel the relief flooding out of the other officers at the sight, each man having contained his growing concern through the pass and the deep valleys. Behind them, as they began the descent into a new green and welcoming world, the front ranks of the legions gave a rowdy cheer, and even the centurions and tribunes joined in, rather than instilling professional silence. This was not a time for stilted quiet. This was a time to cry relief.
Word spread back along the army like a brush fire and Fronto felt his own heart lose its heaviest weight as the morale of the men lifted in the blink of an eye. Marching songs sprang up for the first time since they had left that lake and it was a jubilant column that descended the valley to the lush flat lands ahead. They passed another wide valley off to the right and a sign here pointed along that side-vale identifying a settlement somewhere there as Kalaia, but ahead announcing the city of Aeginium. Another sigh of relief sounded around the army, for Aeginium was an ancient, well known metropolis, and was the first true sign of major civilisation since Apollonia.
Caesar, aware that there was every possibility that the city still held for Pompey, sent off a unit of light, fast-moving scouts to inspect the city and evaluate the situation, while the army moved on sluggishly behind.
Fronto sat straighter in the saddle with the fresh knowledge that soon he might well be sleeping beneath a real roof, and possibly even sinking into a warm bath. He was not the young man he’d been when they chased out the Helvetii, and was growing to appreciate the smaller comforts. On the bright side, while such a protracted time in the saddle had numbed his arse to the texture of leather, his knee had been blessed with ample rest and, along with the ministrations and care of one of the less acerbic medici, it had strengthened a great deal. Soon he might begin to test it a little in exercise.
He was musing on how nice it would be to be able to climb and descend stairs alternately, rather than dragging his left leg to catch up on each step, when the commotion began. He looked up sharply to see the scouts hurtling back towards them. For a moment he wondered whether he’d nodded off and missed something, but he clearly hadn’t, which meant that the scouts hadn’t even got out of sight before they turned around, let alone reached Aeginium.
The lead rider sent his men peeling off to either side, where they began to climb the slopes, while he reined in before the officers and saluted.
‘Report.’ Caesar commanded.
‘A large force, General, coming down the next valley to the north, not more than a mile away. Their scouts saw us as we saw them.’
‘What sort of force?’
‘Legionaries, sir. With cavalry escort and what looked like auxilia. Moving fast, too.’
Caesar swept the helmet from his head and let out a hiss of breath. ‘Who are they?’
‘Sir?’
‘Is it Pompey? Scipio? One of ours? We are blind out here, and you are my only eyes. Who are they?’
The scout shrugged for a moment, but a thought struck him, and his eyes narrowed. ‘The lead vexillum had a golden bull on it, General, I believe.’
Caesar chewed his lip. ‘Are you sure, man? This is important.’
The scout nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, sir. I can see it in the eye of my mind. Plain as day. Gold bull on red.’
‘Let us pray to all the gods you are correct, soldier. If this is Pompey and we are caught strung out like this then I might as well hand him Rome now.’
The general’s hand went up in the signal to halt the column. A new murmur of uncertainty swept along the column, replacing the marching songs like a ripple in water. The officers sat silent, horses huffing and occasionally stamping. The commanders cast pensive glances at one another.
‘General?’ muttered Aulus Ingenuus, sidestepping his mount closer. ‘Might I suggest you bring a cohort forwards. If the scout is wrong, the entire army’s staff is at risk.’
Caesar shook his head. ‘Trust in the gods, Aulus. If I am suddenly enfolded in steel, how do you think the men will react? No, we need to be seen to be confident and in control. Trust in the gods.’
Regardless, Ingenuus brought his own mounted guardsmen close and kept them in two flanking pockets ready to hurry in and protect the general against any danger. Fronto smiled at the younger officer, remembering the green but eager cavalryman he had been a decade ago in Gaul. How things changed…
The other army appeared suddenly, around the edge of the northern valley, and Fronto was immediately suspicious of the scout’s call, since he could hardly see the flags
at all, let alone what was on them. Still, they were not arrayed in battle formation, and, as they appeared, a small knot of riders broke away from the van and pounded along the valley towards the waiting legions.
Despite the tension he felt still in every sinew, Fronto forced himself to be calm and breathe deeply. They could not be the enemy. Even to parley before battle, no one would send so many officers with such little protection.
He felt the stress drain from him as the dozen or so riders approached and slowed their dusty mounts, for he recognised even through the dirt of travel the face of Domitius Calvinus.
They had found their allies.
‘Calvinus,’ Caesar smiled. ‘You are a divine gift for a weary and troubled general. Well met.’
The travel-worn officer bowed as low as his saddle and cuirass would allow. ‘It is most certainly good to see you and the legions, sir. Once we knew of the disaster at Dyrrachium and the failure of the siege, we thought the worst. Is the army seriously under strength?’
Caesar frowned, shaking his head. ‘We took losses, certainly, but we are still strong, and regrouping to fight once more. How did you hear of Dyrrachium?’
Calvinus sagged in the saddle. ‘Rumour reached us a hair’s breadth ahead of disaster, General. Loyal locals passed word to our native scouts, and they barely had time to relay the news to us before Pompey himself hoved into view with an enormous force.’
Caesar threw a look at Fronto. He’d warned the general that Pompey would do something, that he was full of surprises. ‘Pompey attacked you?’
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 23
