Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  Caesar nodded. ‘Harvest time is upon us, and that plan has the added benefit of leaving little of use for Pompey and Scipio. Every mouthful upon which our men gorge helps starve Pompey’s legions. Splendid. I shall send riders to every city that has now pledged to us to send their spare grain and supplies. We could even send a unit to gather from the dubious Larissans, as long as they are fast, long range men and can return at speed. All that remains then is to select our ground and have everything converge there.’

  ‘We need a good commanding position which Pompey will feel obliged to contest,’ Sulla put in, poring over the map. ‘How about here? Orthis? The entrance to a valley with a road that seems to be a vital artery down to the plains beyond the southern range?’

  Caesar shook his head. ‘We have to assume that Pompey has connected with Scipio or is at least very close to doing so, and we know Scipio to be just north of Larissa. If they come from Larissa they will be in the east of the Thessalian bowl. There, they can take either main fork, southwest to the Ekarra Pass and beyond into Malis, or southeast, over the low hills and to the coast near Halos. Either way they could theoretically cut us off from Calenus and his army. If I were Pompey that would be precisely what I would do. So we need to hold him before he reaches the southern area, here, and make him commit to battle.’

  Fronto frowned over the map, taking in all the salient points, then tapped his finger on Larissa. ‘He will come through here, gathering what supplies and men he can from the Larissans, who are still nominally his. He’s almost certainly going to have joined with Scipio by then, and if not, Larissa is the clear place to do so.’ He drummed the fingers of his other hand on the map for a moment, then started to drag his forefinger southwards from Larissa. ‘There’s a road marked. Seems to be an important one – arterial, I suspect – that splits here and heads to both those routes you mentioned, General. But before it splits, it passes through a city on the south bank of the…’ he paused and squinted at the map, ‘the Enipeus River. If such a main road crosses a river big enough to be named on this map, then it’s a critical crossing. And any critical crossing on that route is plainly your place to hold Pompey and bring him to battle.’

  Caesar frowned at the map and began slowly to nod. The other gathered officers confirmed their agreement similarly. The general peered closely at the map.

  ‘That is our place, then. Send to our allies and support and have all units and all possible supplies converge there. We face Pompey at Pharsalus.’

  Part Two

  Endgame

  Pharsalus 48 BC

  Chapter 18

  Fronto paused on his way to the briefing, taking the rare opportunity to view the enemy between the long lines of tents. Still nothing had changed. Huffing irritably in the warm morning air, he thrust his thumbs behind his belt and plodded on towards the headquarters and the waiting officers. His spirits fell a little further at the sight of Salvius Cursor waiting at the end of the Tenth’s lines, prepared to join him in the briefing as the legion’s second in command.

  The army had arrived at the bridge just outside Pharsalus on a pleasant afternoon six days ago. Thanks to excellent organisation and numerous cities keeping faith with Caesar, within a day of their arrival, already supplies and manpower were joining the large camp. There was a distinctly high spirit about the army as they prepared to meet the enemy, who scouts had said were now definitely moving just north of Larissa.

  Then Pompey had finally reached Thessaly three days ago. His massive force had flooded the plain to the north and moved south with the swiftness of a general who was both competent and confident. He had come into view of the Caesarian pickets a few miles north of the bridge and had, upon receiving intelligence of Caesar’s position at the crossing of the river, which was not large but possessed of difficult, steep banks, moved off the road to the west a little and made camp on a low rise between two higher hills, each of which was manned with lookouts.

  There Pompey’s forces sat, some four or five miles away on that low hill, visible from Caesar’s camp only as a mass of dark movement on that distant slope, like an anthill viewed from a height.

  Spirits among the army had taken something of a knock immediately as they watched the enemy arrive over the course of an entire day, flooding that rise like a dark swarm. Clearly Pompey’s force outnumbered his enemy by at least two to one, a fact that caught in the throat of all present. Worse, though, than the discrepancy in numbers which, while worrying was hardly unexpected, was the clear level of their supplies. Caesar’s army had thought themselves well provisioned and Pompey poorly-so, but it seemed that the old man was more adept at logistical planning than Caesar had assumed. The supply train that poured in behind the army was seemingly endless and bulging full. Clearly during the time Pompey had stayed in the north and Caesar’s army had moved south across the hills and mountains, the old man had been doing more than threatening Calvinus. Somehow he had secured superb supply lines and extra troops.

  Presumably much of his auxiliary manpower had come west with Scipio, for even at a distance the eastern and exotic nature of some of the units was clear. Pompey’s camp, once complete, covered more than twice the area of Caesar’s. The worry that local cities, such as Pharsalus for example, might suddenly decide that Pompey once more looked favourite pervaded the staff, and men were sent with each supply caravan to reassure allies that all was under control.

  To Fronto, things didn’t look particularly under control. The whole purpose of pulling back southeast had been to repair spirit and body in the army while diminishing those of the enemy, somewhat evening the scales. In the event, now that Pompey had finally arrived, it transpired that if anything the odds had become more tilted in Pompey’s favour in the intervening months.

  Yet oddly Pompey, with his massive force and excellent supplies, arrived cautiously and, rather than committing to battle, had pulled away and made camp. And more, he was seemingly unwilling even now to commit. As they had done every morning at Dyrrachium, Caesar marched out the army and mustered them on the plain before the camp and facing Pompey, and every morning the old adversary had brought out his own forces, but only as far as the slope below his camp, keeping them back from the plain and on terrain advantageous to him. As if daring Pompey, and giving something for his troops to concentrate on, each day Caesar paraded his force a little closer to Pompey, tempting the hot-tempered old bear into moving. Still he did not.

  And so here they were: two armies facing one another, neither willing to move too close to the enemy’s lair, daily daring one another to attack.

  Fronto nodded at the guard, but the two praetorians outside Caesar’s tent made no move to let him past. He frowned, and a cavalryman cleared his throat.

  ‘Watch word, sir.’

  Fronto’s frown deepened, and the soldier shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry sir. General’s orders now. All checkpoints and posts require the password, regardless of how well known you might be. The enemy are only a few miles away and they’re Romans too, some of them veterans from this army.’

  The legate nodded his understanding. It was eminently sensible, though it would hardly prevent the presence of any spy of talent, and Fronto was convinced there would be half a dozen of them in camp already. Conversely, they had no men in Pompey’s camp.

  ‘Venus Venetrix,’ Fronto said, and the two guards stepped aside.

  Venus Venetrix indeed. Caesar was nothing if not devoted to the cult of the self. Venus being reputedly the origin of his family, he was willing to play on his divine connections at all times.

  Nodding once more to the twin guards, Castor and Pollux in chain shirts, he stepped inside.

  The general’s tent had been given a partitioned entrance lobby, where two more of Ingenuus’ men took Fronto’s weapons for storage. No chances were being taken, it seemed. Behind him, he heard Salvius Cursor complaining bitterly about being disarmed, but he ignored the chuntering tribune and pushed on into the tent.

  The other offi
cers were already there and many irritable faces turned his way as he moved inside.

  ‘Don’t you ever get anywhere on time?’ Antonius snorted from close to the general.

  Fronto raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t realise anything was so time-sensitive. Are we late to go for a stroll ten feet closer to Pompey?’

  A variety of good humoured chortles and irritated grumbles greeted his comment, and he took a seat next to Brutus, Salvius sinking into the one next to him.

  ‘Good,’ Caesar said, standing. ‘The purpose of this particular meeting, gentlemen, is to discuss the little intelligence we have on the enemy and to attempt to divine a way to move matters forwards. For my part, I have had the scouts moving as close as they can come to the enemy’s camp and to try and identify unit insignia and the identity of the commanders.’

  There were approving nods, and Caesar went on. ‘The results are not especially thorough or enlightening, sadly. We know that in addition to Pompey and Scipio, Labienus is present. This has been ever the case in Achaea. But we also have identified Afranius and Petreus, who clearly wish to reprise their stubborn roles from Hispania last year, and Ahenobarbus. There are others there, too. Senators such as Junius Brutus, Casca, Cato and the like. They do not concern me on the field of battle, but their presence, I think, along with our Hispanic friends, explains a great deal.’

  Fronto chuckled. ‘You think Afranius and Petreus are failing to agree on anything again?’

  Caesar nodded. ‘More even than that. Our force is under my command. You all accept that. You are my officers and each strong and important men in your own right, but you all know that you serve your consul, and will accept my decision over all. Pompey, on the other hand, has accepted a mandate from the senate to lead their forces, which means he is beholden to them, and they will consider themselves to have a stake in command. Every decision made in that camp is made by committee, and we all know how well that works in an army. Undoubtedly, some of them want to charge into battle. Others will not.’

  ‘The question is what Pompey wants to do,’ Sulla put in.

  Caesar shook his head. ‘Given the difference in army sizes and the improved supply situation, I think now that Pompey would be content to try and starve us once more. We have adequate supplies for now, but if we remain into autumn and winter, they will diminish rapidly, while Pompey will still have his supply lines. No, I think Pompey almost certainly wants to watch us fade, but there will be others in his camp pressing for a victory. No, I do not think that what Pompey wants to do is the question. I think what their command as a whole will elect to do is the true question.’

  ‘If only we had better information,’ Brutus muttered.

  ‘Pompey guards his watch word carefully, and his lines are well sealed. The chances of sneaking men into his camp are small. I am loathe to lose even a single man in such a futile effort when we are already so heavily outnumbered.’

  Fronto nodded. ‘Galronus is concerned about the cavalry issue. Latest estimates put them at six times our own number. Everyone’s favourite Remi is a good commander and we have excellent riders, but even with Mars himself among us, six to one is horrible odds.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Antonius muttered. ‘Surely he was supposed to be here for the meeting?’

  Volusenus, the Prefect of Horse, cleared his throat. ‘He is with the cavalry overseeing the new training. Every hour the gods send he’s preparing. I can’t blame him. I’m not looking forwards to having to kill six riders myself just like everyone else.’

  * * *

  Galronus was standing on the upper rail of a corral fence when Fronto found him, bellowing at someone called Kintugnatos and casting aspersions upon his parentage and species while suggesting that he could ride a horse slightly less well than another horse would.

  ‘Going well, then?’

  The Remi noble turned and sagged, dropping back from the fence to the springy turf. ‘Actually surprisingly well, all things considered. I don’t know whether it would work in battle as it does in practice, mind. Getting used to being among horses is one thing, doing it while spears are stabbing down at you is another entirely.’

  The two men watched the new practice routine with interest. A thousand horse, with almost no Roman cavalry among them, the force they had at their command was mostly constituted of Gallic and Germanic units. They had been split into their individual tribal commands, the leaders of each unit agreed on the plan of action but each left to command his own unit, which allowed for both better spirit and greater mobility. Interspersed between the horse were a thousand legionaries. They had been selected from multiple legions for their speed and youth, each and every one. They had been stripped of all heavy kit and left with only chain shirt, sword and pilum. They were as fast and manoeuvrable a unit of foot as Fronto had ever seen and, after three days now of this training, they were beginning to move among the horses with growing confidence and skill. It was impressive to Fronto’s mind. Infantry did not react well to being among horses, and they had been extremely nervous at first. Now, after days of it, they were becoming comfortable. Whether or not they ever fought in battle like this, the simple fact was that their increased confidence among horsemen could be invaluable when battle was finally joined, for with such a large cavalry force Pompey would likely make sure to use them advantageously against the Caesarian infantry.

  Fronto smiled. ‘Well I think we’re about to find out how well they manage. Caesar wants you to test them.’

  Galronus frowned. ‘That’s Volusenus’ job. He’s the Prefect of Horse. I was just training them.’

  Fronto laughed. ‘Volusenus bowed out in favour of you. He’s happy to command from a chair. You understand the men. You can read the Gauls’ minds.’

  Galronus nodded. No false modesty there. He was an excellent commander of native cavalry, and he knew it. ‘Where then? Nowhere it stands a chance of bringing the entire force against us, of course.’

  Fronto shrugged. ‘Oh I don’t know. It might be a good thing if you could get them to commit at last.’

  Galronus gave him a scathing glare, and Fronto chuckled again. ‘Water gatherers?’

  The Remi paused for a moment, deep in thought, and then nodded. ‘Good choice.’

  Several times each day Pompey’s army, residing on a hill as they did, sent a party two miles south across the plain to the river to gather supplies of fresh water. Naturally, they were mounted parties –they needed to be able to return to the camp at speed if they found themselves in trouble, and the sheer volume of water required demanded pack animals.

  ‘We’ll have to take them by surprise or they’ll just run away.’

  Fronto grinned. ‘I shall leave the details to you.’

  * * *

  The late afternoon sun huddled just above the western plain like a sulking adolescent. The heat of the day was dying and the faint chill of evening was already beginning to make itself felt across Thessaly. Galronus sat astride his horse impatiently, willing the enemy to put in an appearance. It was the habit of Pompey’s horse to make their last water gathering trip close to sundown, which would then see them through until the dawn. Locating their favoured place for gathering was far from difficult. The scouts had discovered it readily, for the mess made by three hundred horses churning the turf made it fairly obvious.

  A copse of poplar, cypress and oak with abundant smaller vegetation lay to the west, on the far side of the area of crumbled banks and churned earth. It had taken a great deal of care to move two hundred horse down the steep bank further east and into the river, and then ducked low along the river and back up on the far side of the corpse where they could remain hidden, having approached in the gulley and out of sight of Pompeian pickets. It had taken almost an hour to move the cavalry into position where they could not be seen behind the trees, and there they would not be expected, on the far side of the watering place from the Caesarian lines. While the two hundred horse waited, ready to move at a moment’s notice, the two hundred i
nfantry remained standing in the cold water at the river’s edge, hidden by the banks. The entire force, four hundred strong, would not be visible to the enemy until it was too late.

  The first Galronus knew of the enemy’s arrival was laughter. They were easy, overconfident and loud. He had expected unfamiliar voices: Syrian and Cappadocian and the like. What he actually heard was achingly familiar – the tones of central Gallic tribes. They were joking with one another.

  He peered through the foliage and caught tantalising glimpses out into the clear ground beyond the copse. He was at the edge, with the best view, albeit still virtually obscured. Carefully, gingerly, he walked his horse slightly closer to the eaves of the woodland. Through the lighter foliage, he could see Gallic horse moving down to the water, roped lines of beasts each burdened with huge water barrels plodding along behind.

  He counted under his breath, watching as the enemy all moved close to the river. The opening of battle would be clear and not chosen by him. He waved a flattened hand up and down, warning his men to be ready.

  The signal came only a few heartbeats later. A cry of alarm, for the horsemen had reached the river and were suddenly aware of the infantry waiting for them below the banks. A roar of invective in Latin announced the attack of the light-armed footmen as they leapt swiftly up the bank and into the horsemen. Galronus and his horsemen were already moving when he heard, in a terribly familiar dialect, the order given to pull back to the camp.

  He burst into the open, sword held aloft, his riders close behind. Just as he’d hoped, they had all passed the edge of the copse now and were gathered near the river, bellowing defiance at the sudden threat. Their voices rose in pitch and changed entirely in content as the rearmost of them suddenly spotted Galronus’ cavalry bursting clear of the trees behind them, cutting off their path back to Pompey’s camp on the hill.