He was standing there, amid the stink and the corpses, watching his faithful Tenth forming ranks on their standard, when he became aware of the arrival of the staff. Somehow he had sensed Caesar’s approach long before he heard that familiar clearing of old, scratchy throat or saw the shadows of a dozen horsemen in cloaks and plumes. He did not turn.
‘Congratulations, Caesar. A decisive victory.’
‘And one owed in no small part to yourself,’ the general replied.
‘Forgive me if I’m having trouble celebrating. I’m not sure I’m so pleased.’ He threw out a hand, indicating the numerous dead around him, some wearing blue scarves, others not. All Roman.
‘I understand your woe, Fronto, and I do share it. But we must look to the army. If we present a face of regret and sorrow, we will do little for our men’s morale. Our force will now be more or less on a par with the enemy, but we have the advantage in that our morale is high and we have not paused to take stock. The enemy has. They will be despondent and while I desire the death of Roman citizens no more than you, Pompey is still at large, as well as most of the other officers. As long as they evade our grasp, we must accept that this may not be our last fight. We must move on, while spirits are high. We must pursue and engage. We must force those legions into surrender and we must capture those fleeing officers. It is the only way to be sure that this is over.’
Fronto nodded wearily. He hated the thought of fighting any more. Of chasing a terrified legion into their own camp and butchering until they all fell to their knees. But Caesar was right. Pompey had to be captured, as did Scipio, Ahenobarbus, Afranius, Labienus and all the others, else they remained at liberty to raise further armies. And those legions had to be made to take Caesar’s oath. Only then would the victory at Pharsalus be truly complete.
‘Alright, General,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s go finish Pompey.’
Chapter 24
Fronto peered up at the low rise upon which Pompey’s huge camp sprawled. The defences were, of course, of a very familiar and standard design, just like their own back towards the Pharsalus bridge, though without a ditch given the sloping rocky terrain. The mass of fleeing legionaries from Pompey’s army were pouring into that massive camp by the nearest gate, still in the grip of panic and dismay. They had something of a head start, partially because they had fled straight there from the battle, and partially because it had taken Caesar’s legions precious moments to prepare themselves for pursuit.
‘How many, do we think?’ Fronto asked, guiding Bucephalus closer to the other officers.
Antonius turned to him. ‘Survivors from the field or reserves in the camp?’
‘Both.’
‘The scouts reckoned about seven cohorts had been left in camp, mostly legionaries, but with some Thracian auxiliaries. As for those fleeing the field, it’s anyone’s guess, but if I had to pluck a figure from the air, I’d say about twenty five thousand.’
Fronto whistled through his teeth. He’d had a very specific and narrow view of the battlefield while he was on it, unlike Antonius who would have been able to see more and estimate numbers. ‘And we’re chasing them with, what, eight thousand?’
They had left most of the army on the battlefield and taken only the reserves who were still relatively fresh and energetic up the slope towards Pompey’s camp. The rest were slowly marshalling and would be following on, but were simply too depleted and exhausted to go marching up a hill. Yet the officers knew they had to press for a full defeat and swiftly, lest Pompey rally his surviving force and turn on them.
‘We’d better hope the panic is still running strong through them,’ Fronto said darkly. ‘Charging at a fortified camp containing maybe thirty thousand men with only eight is a little worrying.’
‘Momentum,’ Caesar said quietly. ‘We cannot let them stop to take stock. They must continue to run and fear. Send out the auxiliaries with the bows and javelins and any units with pila. Clear the ramparts swiftly so the legions can push into the camp without stopping.’
Ahead, the last of Pompey’s survivors disappeared into the gate and the timber leaves slammed closed. Fronto peered at the defences over the heads of the men in front. The camp was surrounded by a rampart that was topped with only a makeshift barrier formed by the sudis stakes that each legionary carried on campaign. The hill itself consisted of only a thin layer of grass and soil over rock, which meant that a ditch had been impossible, and gathering up sufficient earth and turf for the rampart had been so difficult that the mound was only low. Added to that, the lack of local timber sources – the only real one would be the small copse near the river where Galronus had hammered the water gatherers – meant that no stockade or fence could reasonably be created. Not the most daunting of defences, and the soldiers manning it were not too worrying either. It was what awaited them inside that mattered. Twenty five thousand legionaries. If they could be persuaded to surrender then all would be well. If not…
Caesar’s instructions were being followed, now. The heavy infantry had slowed the pace of their ascent, while the light auxiliary missile units and the few centuries of legionaries who’d retained their pila jogged out ahead. Fronto watched as those units raced up the hill, urged on by their centurions and prefects. He could almost feel the nervousness of those defenders on the ramparts from here, and something occurred to him as he peered at the interspersed legionaries and Thracian spearmen.
‘Why aren’t the rest of the legions helping to man the ramparts?’
Antonius shrugged. ‘Panic.’
‘That’s not enough of an explanation. Even in the worst rout there are men who recover. And there will be officers among them trying to pull them together. It makes no sense for them to cower in their camp protected by just seven cohorts. If they really are frightened of us, then why make for the camp, yet not hold it?’
Caesar nodded thoughtfully. ‘It is puzzling, I admit. But we will no doubt understand when we seize their camp.’
The lead elements were even now reaching missile range. Units of auxiliary archers fell into formation in three positions along the length of the rampart and began to loose arrows in deadly clouds. The few legionary defenders on the walls answered as best they could with their pila, but their range, even down the slope, was nothing compared to the archers, and few of the missiles found a target. Conversely, arrows raked the south-eastern rampart, thudding into flesh, chain and shields, thinning the enemy ranks in mere moments.
A second flurry of arrows followed, then a third, and then the legionaries reached position and hurled their pila. The beleaguered defenders took the barrage hard, many of them falling away in agony. Men began to leave their posts now, simply disappearing, fleeing the brutal attack. It was perhaps telling that it seemed to be the legionaries running, rather than the Thracian auxiliaries. The latter, of course, would be an experienced native unit, while the legionaries were almost certainly recent recruits with little or no true combat experience.
At the commands of their officers, soldiers were now hurrying out around the other sides of the camp, and a quick look over his shoulder confirmed for Fronto that the rest of the legions were on their way from the field below, having re-formed into their units and left the wounded to be dealt with. Galronus and his cavalry were with them, following on.
‘Something just isn’t right about this,’ Fronto said again. ‘We’re taking the camp far too easily.’
Truly, they were. The Thracians soon joined their legionary counterparts in fleeing the ramparts and leaving the camp defences bare. Officers turned to Caesar. The general gave the signal and with a roar his legions raced for the empty defences, up and over them, pausing briefly to disassemble the sudis fence lines.
The officers began to trot their horses slowly up the last stretch of hillside towards the claimed ramparts of Pompey’s camp, and Fronto continued to fret. Pompey would be in there, as well as many of the other officers. And many thousands of legionaries, and yet Caesar’s paltry force was meeting vi
rtually no resistance.
His attention was caught by a call from off to the left and his eyes picked out soldiers waving and pointing off to the west. Fronto called across to the others and Marcus Antonius exchanged a brief word with Caesar, then nodded to Fronto and the pair of them rode off along the hillside, parallel with the rampart, towards the beckoning legionaries.
Fronto didn’t need to reach the soldiers to discover what they had seen, though. As they rounded the corner of the great camp and the hillside fell away to the west, he could see what the men had spotted: many thousands of legionaries on the move. For a dreadful moment he thought Pompey had managed to rally and re-form his army and that there would be another great fight among the hills, but in moments the truth sank in: the legions were still fleeing. They had run for the camp under the watchful eye of Caesar and his army, but they had not stopped there.
What had happened, he could not say. Perhaps the officers had managed to urge them back to the camp but had failed to make them stay and defend with Caesar’s legions in close pursuit. Or perhaps they had simply planned from the start to rush straight through the camp and out the other side, using it as a rear-guard to hold the Caesarian forces that little bit longer and give them a better head start. Whatever the case, they had clearly not stopped at the camp and had fled straight through it, out the other side and then up the slope of the high hill beyond, which would be a more difficult proposition to assault, with rocky outcroppings jutting up at places around it.
‘You think they went through the camp to pick up desperate emergency supplies?’ Antonius mused. Another possibility, Fronto admitted.
‘Who knows. The big question is whether they’re just running over that hill on the way somewhere, or whether they’re planning to hole up and make a stand there.’
‘Jove, but I hope not.’
Fronto nodded. The place was a little too reminiscent of Alesia for comfort in Fronto’s opinion. He had no wish to repeat that dreadful siege, especially against other Romans.
‘Either way,’ Antonius said with a heavy sigh, ‘we can’t let them get away. We have to force a full surrender and disarmament, else we’ll be fighting another battle soon. There’s bound to be officers up there among them who harbour a grudge.’
Fronto nodded. ‘The camp will fall with the men already assaulting it. We don’t need the other legions below.’
‘Agreed,’ Antonius replied. I’ll gather those legions and get them moving at speed to seal off that hill. You secure the camp and let Caesar know what’s happening.’
With that, the curly-haired commander wheeled his horse and raced back down to the mass of tired legions stumping along behind, waving at their officers and pointing at the hill to the west. The army would be exhausted, but every man would still be riding the crest of victory, and Fronto knew they would do whatever was required of them without question or argument. If Antonius could head off Pompey’s fleeing forces and trap them on the hill, they could maybe still end this here. Especially if Pompey was up there. Finally, he would be in a disadvantageous position and might consider a deal.
Turning, Fronto rode back towards the gate that now stood wide. The two legions’ worth of soldiers they had brought up the hill were still pouring into the vast camp. There was no sign now of the small group of mounted officers, and they must have moved inside. Kicking Bucephalus’ flanks, Fronto pounded off across the slope and made for an area of the rampart where the sudis stake defences had been dismantled. He crossed it with ease and spotted Caesar in the main thoroughfare of the camp, deep in discussion with Hirtius, still both mounted.
The legions were pouring through the camp, and as Fronto closed on the officers, he peered down the roads between the ordered lines of tents. Fights were in evidence all over the place as the Caesarian forces swarmed through the camp, putting down any resistance they came across. Moments later, Fronto reined in beside the general.
‘Pompey’s legions are fleeing up the big hill to the west, still on the run,’ he said. ‘Antonius is gathering the legions back down on the plain and taking them to seal the enemy in.’
Caesar nodded. ‘They will not be able to hold out for long.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good thing, though,’ Fronto replied. ‘With inadequate supplies and no water source, if we’ve got them pinned down they’ll either have to agree terms or fight. And if Pompey’s there with them, he’s unlikely to want to come to terms. We might just be facing a bitter siege.’
‘I do not believe so, Marcus,’ Caesar smiled. ‘Venus walked the field of Pharsalus with us and brought us an excellent victory. I do not believe the great goddess would offer me a gift like that and then snatch it away with such a change in fortune.’
Fronto nodded quietly, fighting the urge to point out that he’d not seen the goddess in the press and that it had been he and Galronus who had brought Caesar his victory.
‘Pompey could still rally his men,’ he reminded the general. ‘He has the gift of the silver tongue.’
‘Pompey is not on that hill,’ Caesar said, his smile still in place.
‘What? How do you know?’
‘Because his personal vexillum and the standards of his praetorians are up there at his headquarters. Pompey did not flee with his men. Perhaps even now he awaits us in his quarters. Come, Fronto. Let’s not disappoint him.’
The general began to ride slowly along the main thoroughfare towards the small collection of impressive tents that marked the quarters of the enemy senior command and their headquarters. Urging Bucephalus on, Fronto fell in with the small collection of officers, Aulus Ingenuus and his riders pulling in defensively, keeping Caesar from harm.
The camp had fallen to them easily, with a paltry defence, but there were still struggles and fights occurring throughout the huge installation. Each side street Fronto glanced down, he could still see legionaries and auxiliaries fighting between the rows of tents. Those men who had remained in camp were not selling their lives cheaply, and the advance through the place was sporadic, meeting resistance at almost every corner.
Still the main road had been cleared and, ahead, a century or so of men were engaged with a small unit of Pompeian soldiers in front of the command section. Though he could see no insignia from here, Fronto was sure they would be Pompey’s own bodyguards, performing a last ditch defence of their commander’s headquarters.
Their defence was heroic, but as doomed as every other struggle going on throughout the camp and, as the officers approached, the last four of Pompey’s veterans shuffled back to back, dying by the swords of Caesar’s legionaries. The officers passed the struggle and the gurgling corpses and reined in close to the tents. Fronto frowned as his gaze took in the principia and the officers’ quarters. He’d never seen such opulence or decadence on campaign. The four officer’s tents he could see from this position were fronted by pergolas upon which grew ivy and vines. In their shade sat dining arrangements on fresh, springy turf, tables bearing silver bowls and cups and jars of expensive wine.
‘Who lives like this in a war?’ he snorted in disgust.
‘Senators,’ Caesar replied in a disapproving tone. ‘Not soldiers, but fat oligarchs who were only here because they thought Pompey would protect them.’ He gestured to the command tent, and four of the praetorian horsemen slid from their saddles and hurried across and then in through the great tent’s door, shields up and blades drawn ready. Other men fanned out and began to check the other tents. Gradually they reappeared, shaking their heads. All empty, as was the headquarters tent, confirmed by the four riders who reappeared, sheathing their swords.
Caesar, Fronto and Hirtius slid from their own horses, handing the reins to legionaries and then striding across the turf to that huge command tent. The interior was gloomy, but visible by the light of half a dozen oil lamps.
‘Someone was here recently enough to have the lamps lit,’ Fronto noted.
‘Pompey,’ Caesar confirmed, strolling around the interior. The t
ent showed signs of being abandoned hurriedly, and recently. The huge table had been swept clear, maps and scroll cases and wax tablets all cast down to the floor where they lay in heaps.
‘Seems he was looking for something. I wonder what.’
Caesar, nodding, moved to the dividing wall and pushed aside the flap that led from the public area to Pompey’s private quarters. This was more like what Fronto had expected of the officers, he thought as he followed the general in. Pompey’s quarters were decked out much like Caesar’s. Utilitarian and efficient, with the minimum of glamour and pomp. Here, again, lamps were lit, and checking the small bed chamber off to one side, the same there. And once more everything had been left scattered and upturned. Had Caesar’s legions reached the headquarters before them, Fronto would have assumed that the victorious attackers had ravaged the tent in the search for loot. But the officers had been the first here, and silver and gold accoutrements still lay around, mute evidence that nothing had been looted. The mess here had been left by the tent’s owner searching for things and gathering his critical belongings before fleeing.
‘So he’s gone.’
Caesar nodded.
‘And he probably is on that hill now, regrouping.’
Caesar shook his head. ‘No. Pompey is not with his army. Likely other senior officers are, but not he. Remember, he cast off his general’s cloak in front of his men. He knows that they saw him do so. To all intents and purposes he gave up his command in that moment. He cannot trust the legions to obey him now.’
Fronto sighed. ‘I cannot fathom why he would do that, you know? He’s a lunatic, but I never had him pegged as a coward.’
Caesar paused, frowning, and shook his head again. ‘Not cowardice, Marcus. Remember that he had only taken on this command against me because the senate asked him to. And I would suspect that he has ended up fighting those same senators for control of his own army. His one gambit had failed on the battlefield, and Pompey will have been well aware that in the aftermath his influence will have diminished to almost nothing. If the senate no longer trust him to lead the army, then he is done.’
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 36
