Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  But he would find a way. The last moment information the scouts had delivered to Caesar, which was even now being disseminated among the officers, had located the senior generals among the enemy force. Afranius, with Petreus beside him like a hound, commanded the enemy’s right flank, down towards the river and facing Antonius. The centre, who would meet Calvinus in the brutal melee, was commanded by Scipio, who had proven himself a vicious and capable general. The cavalry, a huge and critical force on the left edge of the field was under Labienus, who deserved to die a thousand traitor’s deaths, may the gods favour Galronus’ sword to find his heart. But the left flank of the enemy infantry, directly facing Salvius’ men, while it lay under the control of Ahenobarbus, was the direct command position of Pompey. The two great figures of the republic faced each other directly.

  And Salvius would find a way to get to the front once the fighting started. He would carve a path through the enemy First and Third legions, alone if necessary, to plant his blade in Pompey’s heart. And when he had done just that, he would take the blade he’d used and he would wrap it in linen and place it in the vault with the funerary urn of his father. Damn Pompey’s black heart but Salvius would skewer it this day, Caesar or no Caesar.

  Despite the dry ground, this land had been farmed and irrigated periodically, and consequently at least they were free of the worst of the cloying dust cloud so often kicked up by a legion’s marching feet. This meant that from horseback – tribunes were expected to be mounted, let alone legionary commanders – Salvius could see the enemy lines.

  It struck him suddenly that there was no dust at all around the enemy. Despite the relatively small cloud building beneath the Tenth’s feet, there was still a faint haze of grey in the air. There was no such cloud around Pompey’s army.

  He turned to Caesar.

  ‘The enemy have stopped marching, General.’

  Caesar frowned, and squinted into the morning light. ‘So they have. Standing still and waiting for us. Interesting.’

  ‘They will lose all the rush and momentum,’ Salvius said in bafflement. He knew, as did any veteran commander of infantry, how much of any conflict was won by the attitude of the men. A unit that charged into the fight with a roar and smashed into the enemy shields built up a certain spirit in the blood that gave them an edge without which any fight was much, much harder. To stand still meant they lost that build-up of vim and, worse still, it gave the men far too much time to think, and thinking when there’s a man running at you with a sword and screaming generally leads to panic.

  Caesar seemed to be weighing up the revelation, then he pursed his lips and nodded. ‘I think I understand him.’

  ‘General?’

  ‘Pompey seriously outnumbers us, but many of his soldiers are green and untested. He will undoubtedly have bolstered their numbers with his precious few veterans, but he perhaps does not feel he can rely on their mettle if they charge. He is keeping them tight and ready, their spirits lifted by the veterans and the knowledge that they outnumber us. It is not what I would do, but I understand the logic. We shall take this opportunity to slam into them with a charge and break that fragile morale.’

  ‘Do you think we can win through here, General? The Tenth, I mean.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Caesar replied quietly. ‘But then here is not where the battle will be won or lost. That honour-and-curse lies with the cavalry. We must simply hold and not break.’

  But Salvius Cursor thought otherwise. If they did not break Pompey’s legion on this flank, then the old bile-sack would escape Salvius’ vengeance, and that could not be permitted. Regardless of how critical the cavalry were to the plan, Salvius would break Pompey’s left flank and he would kill the general personally.

  * * *

  Galronus glanced left and right. He commanded the heart of the Caesarian cavalry, but he had given over the left to Volusenus and the right to Quadratus, and each knew precisely what to do, each leading their men from the front, just as Galronus was. They had to make things look good, but they had to actually fight and do damage. They needed to kill as many of Pompey’s horse as they could before their position became untenable. And to that end, he had devolved command so that each man led an ala of three hundred and some, and each of them had allowed free command to the regional tribal commanders of the units within that ala. Each man was fighting for his own leader and each of those leaders for a prefect, and each of those prefects for Galronus. He would be the one to give the critical signals, but until the signal was given, it would be down to each man to do what he could.

  A glance across the field of battle showed Pompey’s infantry lined up from here right the way to the river bank, two miles away. A vast array of men. A truly breathtaking force to behold. And since there was no sign of the cavalry on the flank, Galronus might have doubted his own information had it not been for two things. He could see the cloud of dust behind the enemy, whence the cavalry were coming, and the scouts had already noted their approach and the identity of the man who led them.

  That was one thing Galronus did not relish: the possibility of meeting Labienus face to face. The man had once been a friend and ally of Fronto and Caesar, and Galronus had liked him. He had been one of the few of Caesar’s officers who showed the remotest consideration for the Gallic and Belgic peoples who were suffering throughout the general’s wars. And because of all that, Galronus had no desire to rob him of life. He doubted that either Fronto or Caesar, or indeed anyone in the Caesarian rank at all, would relish that opportunity.

  Still, they would be lucky to achieve even holding the enemy horse for a hundred heartbeats, let alone scattering them and attacking their commander. He scolded himself. Concentrate on the matter at hand: kill as many of Pompey’s horse as you can, and give the signal the moment it looks as though you’re doomed.

  There they came. Finally, the enemy cavalry rounded the legions’ flank and burst out into the open on the northern edge of the field. Gods, but there were a lot of them. In fairness this must have been what it was like back in Gaul or Hispania when enemies had looked on Galronus or Varus’ approaching cavalry. It gave him a new insight into fear, for certain.

  He could see the makeup of the enemy cavalry now. All the colours and shapes and compositions, from white-skirted Illyrians with crested helmets to cloaked and trousered Galatians with long, ribbed shields, to Syrians in fish-scale shirts of bronze and light spears, to Cappadocians with their high conical helmets, and so many others. All pushed together to fight like some homogenous collection. Conversely, Galronus’ men were almost entirely Gallic, Belgic or Germanic, and those few regular Romans among them had been working alongside the former for the best part of a decade now. A command given in either Latin or Gaulish was comprehensible to all, and they invoked the same gods on the whole. Moreover their weapons, armour and fighting techniques were more or less the same even at home, let alone serving together for Rome. They fought as individual units but were naturally perfectly able to work together. It would be fascinating to see, even in the midst of the fight, what Pompey’s strange cavalry were capable of. Were they even able to work together? It would be testament to Labienus’ control if they did.

  * * *

  Fronto tromped along, his two thousand strong unit of veterans drawn from nine legions keeping pace in open order. Each man left a full two arm-lengths between himself and the man beside him, and each of the five lines kept two arm-lengths from the line in front. It was the most open formation Fronto had ever adopted for a fight. And this would be a real fight. He turned and looked at the men along the front line beside him.

  Each man had been selected on four criteria, carefully and over days in the camp. The result was that each man in this entire unit was a veteran of at least five years in Caesar’s legions. That meant that they had fought through Alesia and beyond at the very least, which proved their strength, tenacity and skill and bravery. Each man had also shown skill with a spear. Not the throwing of a pilum, but at using it i
n the manner of a spear. There had been plenty of opportunity to practice such things in sieges over the years and each one had talent with the fighting style. Thirdly, each man had no fear of horses and was willing to face them. Again, these were men such as those who had formed the defence on the hill near Ilerda, facing Afranius’ horse. One of the centuries was that very same century that Fronto had found fighting for their lives near Lissus when he was looking for Antonius and the ships in the spring. Finally, each man had shown himself to be capable of acting on his own without the need for commands when the shit came flooding in. In fact, many of the force were those same men who had practiced among the cavalry with Galronus and had fought at the river skirmish. Such were Fronto’s men: the best of the best.

  As well as moving in such open order, they were very specifically armed. Each man wore his chain shirt and helmet, and each man had his sword and dagger belted at his middle, but each had been relieved of his shield and instead given a dory spear taken from the auxiliaries’ supply carts. A seven or eight foot length of ash with a flat, leaf-shaped blade at the tip and an iron spike at the butt end. A Greek weapon of antiquity, but one that had helped unite the east and conquer Persia, so one with a history and a reputation for efficiency.

  Fronto swallowed.

  No pressure. Just the hinge on which the battle, and all their futures, swung.

  Ahead all he could see was the back ends of horses: Galronus’ cavalry moving at a walk. Horse sweat, horse shit, hairs of a dozen colours swirling in their wake and the most dust to be found on the battlefield, for while the legions were not stirring the well-irrigated land too much, the horses were a different matter. All Fronto could see was horse. Somewhere beyond them, of course, on the far side of the field, were yet more horses. Lots more horses. But from this position behind the cavalry he could see nothing of them. The first he would know of his time in the fight would be Galronus’ signal. His glance left told him all he needed to know. He could see Caesar with the other staff, following the Tenth Legion close by, and the general’s signaller had gathered up his purple flag and was making ready.

  It was starting. That flag was the signal to begin it all. As soon as Caesar gave his signal, the legions across the two mile front would break into pace and a half, and then at a signal from the centurions, they would stop and cast their pila. Then they’d move once more, into double time, and then into the enemy like a runaway cart on a steep hill.

  And when that signal was given, the archers and slingers at the far flank near the river would run until the first pilum cast, then settle into position and loose their deadly hail, the spear men and auxiliary infantry protecting them from the enemy.

  And when that signal was given, Galronus and his horse would meet an unstoppable force in the form of Labienus and his six thousand cavalry. They would have to hold for as long as they could to make this work. The traitor had to think it was working. He had to believe he was breaking Caesar’s cavalry and closing the door to flank the Tenth.

  Good luck to you, Galronus.

  Off to the left, the purple flag rose, and then fell.

  The battle had begun.

  Chapter 21

  Salvius Cursor peered across the open ground to the Pompeian forces awaiting them. They still were not moving. Whatever Caesar might say, Salvius could not countenance the very notion of standing still and waiting for the enemy to run into you. He did note, peering back over the ranks of enemy heads, since there was no haze of dust hanging over them to obscure the rear, that Pompey had made another adjustment to the traditional deployment. Rather than keeping the third rank of the legions as a reserve as Caesar, and all the great Roman commanders through history, had done, Pompey had committed them to the solid block of waiting men. Perhaps he believed that the increased strength in the battle lines would counterbalance the lack of momentum? Salvius doubted it.

  No, the man’s tactics were all wrong, and whatever Caesar said about understanding the decision, a single look at the general’s expression revealed a level of derision and disagreement with it. Caesar was no more a fan of the plan than was Salvius.

  A coughing noise drew his attention and he looked across to see one of the men almost bent double as he marched, hacking up dust. His forehead was lathered with sweat and he was panting. So were the others. The men of the legion were tiring of marching across the dry ground under the already hot morning sun in full kit. An idea occurred to him, and one that might have useful aspects. He turned to the general.

  ‘Sir, might we not take the opportunity for a pause to rest the men? The enemy are not coming for us, after all?’

  Caesar frowned, but his eyes raked the legions and slowly he nodded. The enemy cavalry had not yet put in an appearance, though the cloud of their passage was visible behind the enemy legions on their flank, and they were racing into the fray.

  ‘A count of thirty,’ the general said, and turned to his musician. ‘Give the order.’

  Salvius nodded. Blaring horns and shrill whistles rang out along the lines and the men came to a halt, lowering their shields for a moment and breathing deeply as their officers told them to catch their breath. They would have to move again straight away or the cavalry would engage early and everything could go wrong, but that count of thirty would make the difference between a row of tired, sweating men charging and a line of vigorous, enthused ones. Another failure of Pompey’s strategy.

  Caesar was busy monitoring things among the enemy and, grasping the only opportunity he was likely to get, Salvius took the chance to slip forwards through the ranks. Caesar would disapprove and no doubt make his feelings clear later, but Fronto had survived decades of doing things like that, so why not Salvius Cursor?

  He threaded his way between legionaries, a journey made easier by the open formation they’d had to adopt in order to stretch the army to meet the length of Pompey’s line. Salvius counted off the heartbeats as he moved. In thirty they would be advancing again. By twenty he had reached the front rankers, and he settled in four lines back from the front line, not for safety or any sort of propriety, but for purely practical reasons. The front two ranks carried pila and would pause to throw them, and if Salvius was among them not only might he get in the way but, crucially, he would take the place of a man who otherwise would be throwing a pilum into the enemy. No, better to be in line four, where he could get to the action, but not get in the way of the initial attacks.

  Two centurions stood in the front row, one on either side of him and perhaps ten men away along the line. He recognised Atenos to the left and nodded his approval. The big Gaul led from the front like all centurions, but Atenos was more than a simple officer. He was a warrior born, and the sheer power of the man seemed to radiate and affect those close to him. He was like a human standard on the battlefield. Plus, he was seemingly immortal. In the past two years Salvius had seen him take so many wounds, but all were minor and had not even slowed the man down. The other centurion was a man named Crastinus, who had been rousing the men in the camp before they left, geeing them up for the fight. Another veteran and another good man. Hopefully with men of their calibre in the front, and the veterans of the Tenth, too, they could surpass Caesar’s expectations and carve their way through the enemy legions like a hot knife in butter, clearing the way to Pompey himself.

  The signal was given, dragging him from his hopeful reveries. The legions gathered up their shields once more, and at the next whistle began to march forwards, determined.

  ‘Pace and a half,’ bellowed Atenos, and more whistles shrieked across the battlefield. The men began to jog, Salvius keeping up with the shush of chain and the clonk and rattle of arms and armour.

  ‘At twenty five paces, first row pila,’ bellowed Atenos. ‘Second at twenty.’

  Salvius watched the enemy lines getting closer with every step, preparing himself with his invocations to Mars.

  ‘Ready,’ roared the centurion again.

  ‘Now.’ Another blast of whistles.

/>   The legion came to a sudden halt, the front rank, having levelled their weapons easily in the open order, launching them even as their leading foot stamped into the ground. The added momentum of the sudden drop in pace gave the missiles an extra burst of speed, and hundreds upon hundreds of iron points hurtled out along the battle lines, falling with pleasing accuracy among the Pompeian lines.

  The result was instant and gratifying. All along the line shields were punctured, the pila punching through the boards and lodging there. Others managed to sneak between shields and drive into chain shirts or even flesh, given the more densely-packed ranks of Pompey’s larger force.

  An answering whistle chorus broke out along Pompey’s ranks, and the men of the Caesarian legions raised their shields in response.

  But Atenos was shrewd. He had calculated effective distances for the weapons in his head as they marched into battle. The added momentum of the run had given the Caesarian missiles just that little boost in distance and made them truly effective. Pompey’s men had no such additional power and the enemy pila launched along the lines with far less efficiency. A few of the better shots from the stronger men struck legionaries in the front ranks, but the vast majority fell to earth just in front of Caesar’s army. The legionaries roared and, at a series of swift commands, the front two ranks rotated. Another whistle and they were off again.

  Five more paces, this time at standard march, and another call. The ranks stopped and the second volley of pila hurtled out, this time without the momentum but at an acceptable range. Once more, they punched deep into Pompeian soldiers, creating carnage and chaos. But the cries of agony and terror among the green recruits there were brief, the lines moving forwards to fill the gaps, while their answering volley was more effective than the first, striking Caesar’s legionaries all along the line.