Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  Four legions. Four understrength legions, Fronto corrected himself. Thank all the gods that the enemy still seemed to be under the nominal command of a senate of arguing civilians. Had a man like Pompey or Caesar, even Fronto, been up there in control, he might have just taken his chances with a fight. The men down here on the plain, for all their shiny veteran impressiveness and high morale, numbered perhaps twelve thousand men all told. Maybe half the number that now massed on the hill above. Of course conditions – hunger, morale, lack of equipment – might even it out as far as parity between the two forces, but that could still be enough for the enemy to triumph.

  Clearly that was not going to be the case. Instead of gathering into ordered units, raising standards and rushing down the hill in response to a well-given command, attempting to crush Caesar’s army and reach the precious, life-giving water, the enemy simply milled and massed on the summit.

  ‘Why don’t they at least try for something?’ Atenos murmured, standing close by.

  ‘Partially, I think, because they will remember something similar at Dyrrachium. We cut off their water supply there and they tried to rush us and ended up with disastrous losses. That little escapade will loom heavily in their thoughts. But mostly because there is no clarity of command. No army works well run by a committee.’

  Atenos laughed, then became serious once more. ‘But there are strong men up there. Good military men, surely? Can they not take control?’

  Fronto shook his head. ‘Afranius and Petreius cannot agree on the colour of shit let alone how to command an army. We learned that lesson well at Ilerda. Labienus and Pompey have both gone, escaped straight after the battle. Scipio might be up there, I’ll admit, and Ahenobarbus, probably, but I cannot see either of those two deferring to the other, and none of the four of them would willingly let another take sole command. The rest of the officers will be senators like Cicero and Cato. Men with a little command experience, but far more at home in a courthouse than a battlefield. And it was the senate who, through Pompey, supplied the pay for the legions, so I doubt any of those remaining commanders will be able to charge up the blood of the survivors without the support of all of his peers. It’ll be a mess. And I for one am bloody glad, because that chaos is probably the only thing stopping a second fight breaking out.’

  Atenos nodded and they both peered up at the heights. More and more figures were massing at the crest, but as a mob rather than a military force. They had lost cohesion and all hope of solid command. They were little more than hungry bandits now, led by a committee.

  ‘Will they turn back again, sir?’ asked one of the junior tribunes.

  ‘They might, but I doubt it. It took them half a day to slog their way across the rocks and dips to get here, and they’re increasingly hungry and thirsty. No one will relish the thought of repeating that, especially since at the other end are just siege lines blocking them off anyway. They’re trapped.’

  He straightened in the saddle. ‘The way I see it, they have four choices. They either try and make a break for it east or west, though they must realise by now that we can simply get ahead of them and be in the way wherever they go. Or they seek terms. Of course, if they do, Caesar will have a fine line to walk. He doesn’t want to give them everything, but he must be magnanimous in victory and not push them too far, else he might break them and end up in a fight anyway. That’s their third choice, of course: fight. But there will be enough leaders up there unwilling to start that, let alone tired and hungry legionaries.’

  ‘And the fourth choice, sir?’

  ‘Continue to dither and slowly starve to death. Not the most sensible option, but one upon which they seem intent at the moment.’

  ‘Can you see what they’re doing?’ Atenos said in a surprised tone.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They seem to be making camp.’

  Fronto stared. The centurion was right. Some of the refugees had brought tent materials with them when they fled through the camp and had begun to put up shelters. Others had used pilum and cloak to create a one man sunshade. They appeared to be settling in for the duration.

  ‘Ridiculous. Caesar’s going to have to do something soon.’

  Atenos nodded. ‘Maybe not ‘til tomorrow, though, I’d wager. Another night of starvation and thirst will turn a lot of hearts towards the idea of reconciliation.’

  * * *

  Galronus squinted into the darkness. The campfires of the army at their new siege line below the slope burned bright, dancing and flickering in the dark, making the four legions’ strength and their defences a visible reminder to the enemy even in the middle of the night. No fires had been lit atop the hill – there would be precious little up there to burn, after all – but the army of Pompey was still visible as a dark mass atop the peak, occasionally shifting around in the night.

  The cavalry, on the other hand, were active. It had been a simple decision to split the entire remaining force into turma of thirty two men and set up a system of shifts, such that each unit did one night patrol and one day patrol and rested or slept in between. At any given moment there were more than two hundred riders out in bands, watching for men fleeing the lines. Some of the officers had argued that it could have been worth simply letting them go. They were deserting from the enemy, after all, and Sulla for one thought they should be encouraging such behaviour. Those men were overruled, though. The potential value of adding the deserters to the Caesarian manpower was too enticing, and though Caesar had initially displayed some scepticism over the idea, he had swiftly come around to it, once he had spoken to some of the prisoners being held in Pompey’s old camp.

  They were Romans. They were soldiers. They had followed their eagles until they fell to the dust and they had held true to their oath to support Pompey until he ignominiously abandoned them and fled the field, leaving them to die in his wake. It was becoming clear that the survivors were less than proud of their former commander, an attitude no doubt enhanced by other officers up on that hill who saw themselves as his successor.

  And so the cavalry continued to rove the plains, and continued to capture small bands of fleeing individuals. The numbers on the hill would be dwindling, not enough to make a difference if it came to a fight, but their noted disappearance could only be further weakening morale there.

  Galronus gestured to a low line of shrubs suddenly.

  ‘What was that?’

  The riders to either side of him peered into the dark, eying the line of bushes that looked little more than a lumpy hedge in the night. After a while, one of the riders shrugged. ‘Nothing. Leaves in the breeze.’

  ‘What breeze?’ Galronus said in low tones.

  The rider frowned. The night air was as still as a gnat’s breath and had been for many days now, the day’s heat still captured in the soil. All the three men squinted at that line of bushes. There was definite movement among the foliage, and had there been even the slightest air current it would have entirely escaped Galronus’ notice. Without resorting to further spoken commands, he motioned to the men beside him to lead their riders both to left and right, around the ends of that line of bushes. Each officer did so, taking ten men and drumming off at a good pace, and Galronus gathered the remaining ten. All the men of this turma were Lingones, a tribe of central Gaul, their homeland lying roughly between his own Remi and the Aedui. They were good riders, and he had chosen them for his own unit based on their regular displays of skill and cohesion.

  With just two hand signals, he directed the men to join him and walked his horse towards the bushes. Hunting men was sometimes so similar to hunting animals. Beat the undergrowth and send them the way you want, onto a spear point, preferably.

  The other two units rounded the line of bushes and suddenly there were shouts in both Gaulish and Latin from beyond the foliage. Just as Galronus had suspected. He lowered his spear tip and gestured for the men to line up. They did so, their own spears coming down to form a deadly pointed hedge that moved slowly, inevit
ably towards the bushes.

  He was not the least bit surprised when a small group of lightly equipped Romans burst from the hollow in a panic, though he was a little perturbed by the number of them. Perhaps two dozen men were running towards him, more than the usual half dozen nervous looking deserters they came across. These men wore no armour, just their russet tunics and boots and a sword belted at their side. Their faces and arms were darkened with dirt to make them less visible in the night.

  The deserters yelled in shock as they emerged to see eleven riders clopping slowly towards them with spears couched and ready. Desperate, taken aback by a trap they’d not anticipated, several of the men decided that they might fare better on their own and veered off left or right. Unfortunately for them, both the other cavalry officers had been bright enough to anticipate their quarry’s attempted flight, and half the riders emerged back around the end of the line, five at each side, closing in on the escaping soldiers.

  There was an assortment of reactions to the trap. More than half the men dropped to their knees, throwing their hands in the air. Only two drew their swords. The rest were still trying to run for it. Carefully, Galronus angled his horse so that his right side was more exposed, his left hidden. His leg still throbbed day and night and hurt like Hades when he mounted and dismounted, no matter how much help he had or how careful he was. One experimental prod had confirmed how much it hurt when anything touched it. He couldn’t risk exposing his injured leg to an enemy.

  One of the running legionaries – and he was brave, Galronus had to admit – made a valiant attempt to evade his captors, throwing himself to the ground and attempting to roll underneath Galronus’ spear to relative safety beyond. Almost negligently, the Remi noble dropped the point of the spear and the man rolled straight into it. He hit it hard enough that Galronus felt the impact up the shaft right to his shoulder, and the point snapped off the spear.

  He let go of the weapon and drew his sword as the moaning Roman tried to stand, got as far as his knees, and then coughed blood. The wound had not been an instant kill, but it had entered through his back and had clearly done something permanent and critical inside. The soldier went pale, eyes bulging, and coughed again, a mass of dark liquid dropping to the grass.

  ‘Surrender and the consul may show clemency,’ Galronus said, a line he had trotted out more than once in the last day or two. Staring wide-eyed at the dying man in the dirt, the other legionaries gave up the fight and dropped to their knees with their fellows, hands raised.

  ‘I told you he would cock it up,’ grunted one legionary.

  Before Galronus could enquire further, there was another commotion at the far side of the bushes. A haughty, aristocratic voice in Latin demanded his release. There was a thump and then silence. Galronus, intrigued, sat quietly and waited. There was a long, tension-laden pause, and eventually half a dozen riders, led by a Lingone nobleman, emerged around the western edge of the bushes. Galronus’ brows knitted as he saw that they had a prisoner amid the horses, hands bound and the other end of the rope tied to the officer’s saddle horn.

  As the riders came to a halt the Roman, a tall, thin man with short hair and a clean-shaven face that had been smeared with dirt, straightened with a haughtiness that seemed ridiculous in his situation. Galronus looked him up and down. He seemed vaguely familiar, but that was all. Perhaps it was because of the dirt.

  ‘Let me go,’ demanded the Roman, and Galronus’ brow rose in surprise.

  ‘Do you truly believe you are in a position to give orders to anyone, let alone your captors?’

  ‘You have no idea who you are dealing with. I am a man of import. Caesar will have you slit from chin to balls if you mistreat me.’

  ‘With who am I dealing that Caesar will be so concerned?’ There was, of course, a standing order among the cavalry to treat officers with respect and deliver them to the staff rather than straight to the internment camp. So far they had taken a legate, a tribune and three centurions. This man was clearly in a different league, though, or at least believed himself to be.

  ‘I am Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, acting praetor in the field on behalf of the senate of Rome.’

  Galronus almost laughed. ‘Ahenobarbus.’

  ‘Yes, and Caesar will want…’

  ‘Caesar is not here.’

  ‘No, but Caesar…’ the man began.

  ‘And if Caesar was here, I doubt the mercy tree would bear you much fruit, Domitius Ahenobarbus. You stand accused of numerous crimes that warrant the sword.’

  ‘I am ready to affirm a vow to…’

  ‘I think not.’

  The Roman stared at the Remi prince. ‘How dare you, you barbarian oaf. Just because you know how to ride a horse…’

  ‘I,’ Galronus said with a smile, ‘am Gaius Julius Galronus, a senator of Rome and senior cavalry commander in the field serving the consul. Perhaps you would care to rethink your insults?’

  ‘Caesar will hear…’

  ‘Yes,’ interrupted Galronus. ‘Yes, Caesar will hear about this. I shall tell him myself. You may have the chance to speak to him. It depends partially on how much your gods love you and partly on how sprightly you are.’

  Ahenobarbus’ brow creased in bewilderment and Galronus nodded to the officer as he reached out and took the other end of Ahenobarbus’ rope. ‘Take the other prisoners to the camp, then return to patrol. I shall deliver this creature to the general.’

  The other riders saluted. The captured soldiers rose at their bidding, hands on their heads. Galronus was interested to note one of them risking a beating to step out of line and spit a huge wad of phlegm at the bound officer.

  ‘Prick,’ the man said under his breath and then joined his mates for the march south to the prison camp.

  Galronus sat for a moment, surrounded by his ten men, then he took a deep breath.

  ‘It is just less than a mile to Caesar’s camp. I know from long experience that my horse can comfortably cover ten miles in an hour without breaking a sweat. I wonder: can you?’

  ‘What?’ snorted Ahenobarbus. ‘I…’

  ‘Fronto is always trying to prove to me how civilised Rome is by quoting old stories. Idiotically, as often as not they are about Greeks. Have you heard the tale of Pheidippides?’

  ‘What? Of course I have.’ Realisation dawned slowly on the man, and his eyes bulged.

  ‘Fronto tells me,’ Galronus continued, ‘that Pheidippides ran twenty six miles to deliver news of some battle or other. I doubt you would manage twenty six, but I shall be interested to see if you can keep pace with me for just one.’

  ‘Now listen here…’ Ahenobarbus said, though this time with rather more panic than haughtiness.

  ‘I think not. Take a deep breath Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus.’

  ‘I have information…’

  ‘Good,’ was Galronus’ only reply as he kicked his horse’s flank with his one good leg and urged her on, looping the rope over one of his own saddle horns. The other riders spaced themselves out so that they created a mobile circle around the commander and his prisoner.

  Ahenobarbus stood his ground for mere moments until the rope jerked him into motion. He began to jog, keeping up with the horse. Galronus turned an unpleasant smile on him.

  ‘Can you jump?’

  ‘What?’ gasped the Roman again, then made a strange, panicky strangled noise as he noticed the gulley coming up – irrigation for the fields hereabouts. Galronus jumped his horse easily. Ahenobarbus made the jump with some difficulty, landed badly on the side of his foot, and somehow, miraculously, managed to stay up and running. The other riders cheered.

  ‘Well done,’ smiled Galronus. ‘Get used to it. These fields are well-irrigated.’

  * * *

  Fronto heard the commotion outside, scrambled from his cot, and poked his head out of the tent. A soldier was at Caesar’s headquarters, knocking respectfully but urgently as a small group of horsemen approached up the Via Principalis. He recognised his frie
nd leading them with a sigh of relief. Galronus was laughing with one of his officers.

  Caesar emerged from his tent at the same time as Fronto, though where the legate of the Tenth was busy shuffling into unlaced boots and belting his tunic, fresh from sleep, the general was fully dressed and alert. Antonius was with him, a folded map beneath his arm from where the pair had been working into the night.

  ‘Senator Galronus,’ Caesar smiled. ‘You have important pickings from this night?’

  ‘Pickings full of their own importance, General,’ grinned Galronus. He walked his horse forwards, and the gathered officers could now see the shape on the end of the rope behind him.

  ‘Explain?’ Caesar said, a dark tone inflecting his voice.

  ‘One Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus. I had it in mind to simply do away with him when caught, but he seemed insistent upon speaking to you.’

  Caesar looked unimpressed, but Antonius snorted with laughter. Fronto stared at the thing that had been Ahenobarbus. He’d have been happy to order the man’s death, for few Romans, and none of Pompey’s officer corps deserved it more, but this tortuous method seemed too much. It was then that he realised with shock Ahenobarbus was still alive, groaning and twisting this way and that.

  ‘He survived the trip,’ Antonius said, dropping his maps into the hands of a nearby legionary and coming out front.

  ‘Yes. He made it almost half a mile before he tripped on a rock. He was noisy for a while.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Antonius laughed. He approached the dusty, bloody heap on the rope’s end. ‘So you have something to say?’ he asked. The ruined officer coughed up dust and blood and murmured something in a low, scratchy voice. Antonius leaned close, putting his ear close to Ahenobarbus’ lipless mouth.

  ‘Talk.’