Sands of Egypt

by S. J. A. Turney

  He felt the tension building. The Sixth were now falling back in neat formation along the jetty and up the ramp onto the Diomedes, the only ship now not burning, and separated from the nearest engulfed vessels by one empty jetty, saving it from the worst danger. Even so, sparks and flaming canvas, caught by the sea breezes, fluttered down onto the Diomedes, where men with buckets hurried to put them out.

  The enemy were close enough now for Galronus to see the hunger on their faces, mixed with nerves at the idea of taking on the bloodthirsty Romans and the burning ships. As the last unit of legionaries retreated onto the wooden jetty they paused, some of them producing axes, and hewed at the timbers in four places. There was an unpleasant groan from the wooden walkway, a warning sound, and, shouldering their axes, the men of the Sixth Legion hurried to the ramp, sweeping up and onto the Diomedes.

  Galronus watched expectantly. The enemy’s leaders were shouting. Their language was peculiar to him, even the ones speaking Greek, but the tone made it clear. They were exhorting their men to take the Romans before they got away. These men had failed to secure Achillas his fleet, and he would be furious. Imagine how well those leaders would be received by their general if they also let the Romans escape.

  Still their men were hesitant, all the more so now that the narrow jetty lay between them and their foe. The last of the Sixth reached the ship, and began to pull in the ramp even as other men untied the ropes and prepared to get underway.

  Finally, driven by their frenzied, furious officers, the Aegyptians rushed forwards in a last effort to take the Diomedes before it left the dock, but they were doomed from the moment their boots touched the timbers. The retreating Romans had cut the wooden supports, not enough to sever them, but enough to weaken them. The weight of the approaching Aegyptians was too much. As perhaps a hundred of them pounded over the half-hewn section it gave, the whole jetty leaning precariously. Men cried out and grabbed at one another as they were tipped unceremoniously into the water. In a heartbeat it swung past the point of no return and with a groan and the deep cracking of ancient timbers the whole thing crashed to the water and lay there with screaming men bobbing around amid the broken wood.

  Fronto was still grinning like an idiot as the ship pulled away from the ruined jetty, out into safe water.

  ‘You’re going peculiar in your old age, you know?’ Galronus said, shaking his head.

  Fronto turned and looked out the way they were heading now, instead of at the foiled and impotent enemy on the harbour side. He sucked on his teeth, his head switching back and forth between the Palace Harbour off to their right and the main exit to the harbour.

  ‘You’re not thinking of sailing out to sea?’ Galronus said quietly.

  Fronto snorted. ‘Hardly, with my stomach. But…’

  He turned to the centurion beside him. ‘How adventurous are you feeling, Carfulenus?’

  The officer frowned in confusion. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Feels like we’re on a winning streak here. Do we test our luck?’

  ‘Pharos?’ Carfulenus asked quietly, looking in the same direction as Fronto.

  ‘What’s Pharos?’ Galronus said, peering off ahead, where they appeared to be looking at the harbour entrance.

  ‘That’s Pharos,’ Fronto grinned, pointing at the heavy, tall lighthouse standing at the eastern end of the island, beside the harbour entrance.

  Galronus rolled his eyes. ‘What about the redoubt at the palace?’

  ‘We can get into the Palace Harbour at any time now, as long as we control the main harbour, and with the enemy fleet burning. But if we can secure the sea entrance too, that gives us an extra edge.’

  At a nod from the centurion, Fronto turned and threw his hands up like an orator. ‘Men of the Sixth Legion, have you had the fight knocked out of you yet?’

  There was a strange pause, and then a smattering of negative grumbles.

  ‘No? So you’re up for a fight then? Not defending a pile of rubble this time, but a proper fight?’

  This earned more of a surge of support.

  ‘There’s a small fort below the Pharos lighthouse, with artillery, which commands the entrance to the harbour. I have a mind to make sure that’s ours. What do you say?’

  This time there was a roar. He turned to Galronus and Carfulenus. ‘It seems the men fancy a scuffle.’

  The centurion laughed. ‘Pharos it is, then.’

  ‘You shouldn’t encourage him,’ Galronus advised Carfulenus.

  The three men stood at the rail as the ship, having expertly back-oared away from the ruined jetty, turned gracefully and began to move forwards now, heading for the eastern tip of the island below the huge, iconic lighthouse. The oars rose and dipped with rhythmic splashes, and Galronus peered ahead as the small fort gradually became clearer and clearer. They swung wide round the low Antirrhodus Island and closed on their destination as the sun began its slide towards the horizon. It always surprised Galronus how this far south the afternoon slid into evening so much faster than it did at home. They should just have time to take Pharos and perhaps even sail back to the Palace Harbour before dark.

  So long as Pharos held no surprises…

  The ship cut closer and closer. He could finally make out the shapes of men on the walls of the small, squat, mud brick fort at the water’s edge. It was far from a strong fortress, having clearly been constructed more for controlling the water, as part of the homogenous system of city defences, than for withstanding an attack in itself.

  Square, and with ramparts little over two and a half times a man’s height, the walls had a slight slope and, having been formed of mud brick, had suffered at the hands of the sea and its winds, becoming pitted and worn. It was not a lot longer in any side than the Diomedes, one corner supporting an offshoot wall that marched out down a flight of stairs to the water, forming a single dock as well as part of a sea wall. There were no towers, but each of the two eastern corners had been widened to create a stable artillery platform. On both stood some sort of ornate and arcane version of a ballista, angled out at the water, where they could cripple shipping attempting to enter the harbour, especially when added to the similar fortification at the far side, on the end of the mole that ran from the palace and was under Roman control already.

  Galronus held his breath as they closed. Men were pointing their way, and no one seemed to be able to decide what to do. The Diomedes was a local ship, stacked with legionaries resembling the Gabiniani, who had been stationed in Alexandria for years. These were under Caesar and the queen, of course, yet some would remember that the king was also in the palace now. The small garrison on the island would probably be somewhat confused over where their loyalties currently lay. Theoretically whether they supported Ptolemy or Cleopatra, both were in the palace and nominally free and safe, while the army attacking was led by the general Achillas. But Achillas claimed to be leading in the name of the king.

  Someone in the fort seemed to make a decision that came down against Fronto whatever the case, for there was a flurry of activity around the weapon and in a count of sixteen heartbeats it was wound and released. The men there were trained on that very weapon, and their first shot was no ranging missile. Dead on target it tore through the lower corner of a sail, thudded into a man’s shoulder blade and carried him, screaming, over the side and into the water where he was immediately beaten to death by the actions of a dozen oarsmen.

  Galronus made the quickest of estimations and decided that they could probably get three shots off before the ship reached them, and the far weapon one or two. Tongues of orange flame bursting into life near the weapons suggested that they were preparing fire shots. As an anti-ship installation, it would naturally be capable of launching flaming missiles.

  They closed. A second shot came, this one still unlit, and it impaled a second man, pinning him to the deck as he writhed and screamed, until a friend put him out of his misery. Galronus clenched his teeth, breathing shallow, as expert sailors now in Fronto’s c
ontrol angled the ship towards that projecting wall that doubled as a dock.

  He watched the artillery carefully. Archers were now moving into position on the wall. Flickers of flame betrayed their plan. He turned to Fronto. ‘Fire arrows.’

  Fronto nodded and turned to the deck. ‘Water buckets at the ready. Be prepared for fire arrows and ready to dock and disembark quickly. As soon as your units hit solid ground, run for the fort. The walls are low, sloped and poorly-maintained, so the stairs aren’t the only way up. Don’t work to careful strategy. Look for an open stretch of defences, get over them and subdue the inhabitants. Seize the artillery as soon as you can, and stop those archers. Bucket men and sixth and seventh centuries of cohort one, you remain on the ship. Make sure these oarsmen don’t suddenly decide they’re Achillas’ men again and row away. Are you all ready?’

  Before the men could reply there was a chorus of twangs and thuds from the fort and shouts of men with guttural Aegyptian accents. Galronus tensed as the missiles came in. Once more the large bolts were perfectly aimed, though this time they were coated with burning pitch, the sticky fire violent enough to keep them aflame even as they flew through the air.

  The first caught a sail and tore a piece of rail from the ship’s edge, carrying it out into the sea. The second thudded into an oar bench, pinning a man’s thigh to it as it engulfed him in flame. The sail caught immediately, but men with buckets were moving straight away. Only a small part of the sail charred before the water extinguished the flames. Similarly, the burning man was immediately doused with water, though he was still swiftly dispatched, having been crippled and fated to bleed out within the hour anyway.

  Fire arrows struck here and there with thuds and squawks of pain, but men were rushing everywhere with buckets, refilling them from one of the two water barrels on the deck. Galronus watched, tense, as they glided in alongside the dock-wall and men immediately leapt ashore with ropes. The vessel was hauled close and tied up, the ramp run out and oars all shipped in mere heartbeats, and then the fight was on, men running ashore in small unit groups but without much nod to formation.

  ‘Shall we?’ Fronto grinned at the other two officers.

  ‘You’ve been in the sun too long,’ grumbled Galronus. ‘Come on, then.’

  ‘You should stay and command the ship, sir,’ the centurion said pointedly to Fronto. With a feral grin that rejected Carfulenus’ suggestion, Fronto clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder and, ripping his sword from its sheath, ran for the ramp. Shaking his head, Galronus followed suit.

  ‘You know that when you take this place, you’ll have to hold it?’

  Fronto nodded. ‘We’ll leave ten centuries. And we can resupply and support them by ship. I want to control this harbour.’

  Galronus, still shaking his head, ran on after his friend down the ramp. Glancing ahead he decided that despite his fears, this looked like a relatively easy fight. Getting close enough under arrow and bolt fire had been the main issue, and the enemy had wasted half their time trying to decide whether to shoot, and lighting their braziers. Now there were just poor-quality walls holding them back.

  Somewhere amid the stream of legionaries, Fronto and Galronus ran alongside Centurion Carfulenus who wore a crest of green feathers and a cloak over his armour despite the heat.

  ‘Doesn’t it get hot in that?’

  The centurion smiled. ‘Stops the metal getting to finger-burning temperature, but it’s mainly to stop the sea salt rusting the bloody thing to bits, sir.’

  Fronto laughed, and the three of them ran on amid the men. Reaching the walls of the fort swiftly, where the projecting dock was the height of a man below the rest, connected by a staircase, they began to pound up the steps amid their men. The enemy had gathered at the top and were doing their best to hold back the Roman tide, but they were falling foul of one of the oldest strategic failures in the book. In committing the bulk of their force to hold the stair access, they had insufficient troops to man the rest of the walls. With a pronounced slope to them, and the spaces between the bricks widened and eroded with the weather, they were little more than one giant stepladder, and men were clambering up the walls themselves almost as fast as the stairs, though they’d had to discard their shields to give them a free hand for the climb.

  The native garrison could not have numbered more than a hundred to Fronto’s thousand legionaries, and by the time the stairs fell and Fronto and Galronus emerged onto the top, the fort was almost theirs, just a few small pockets of men left fighting. Galronus had to roll his eyes again at Fronto, who displayed initially clear disappointment that he’d missed the fight, and then desperation to be involved in one of the last few struggles. Pulling men out of the way, Fronto pounded across to one of the artillery platforms where the defenders were making a last stand while their artillerists continued to pound the ship with blazing missiles.

  With a cry of triumph, Fronto leapt into the fray, Sword coming back and then stabbing out, gutting one of the poorly-armoured defenders. Again and again his sword rose and fell, as he joined the men of the Sixth in dispatching the last of the Aegyptians from the fort. Galronus simply watched. The fort had fallen before they got here, and there had been no need for the two of them to become personally involved, other than Fronto’s usual desire to pretend he was an ordinary soldier and not a member of Rome’s aristocracy and military elite.

  In moments the thuds of artillery had stopped.

  Galronus hurried over to the parapet and peered down. The men on board the Diomedes had managed to keep any fire attack under control, and the ship remained unburned and intact at the dockside. At least they could get away, then. He didn’t relish the idea of being trapped here for the night.

  The sun was low now, and his gaze turned to the city back across the harbour as Fronto, wiping his blade with a cloth, fell in alongside him.

  ‘I think your firing the fleet might have been a mistake,’ Galronus said darkly, and pointed.

  Fronto followed his gesture to where the wind had carried sparks from the burning ships to the dry, brittle buildings of Alexandria.

  The port district was aflame.

  ‘Damn it.’

  Chapter Four

  Fronto stood on the top tier of seating in the theatre attached to the edge of the palace, one of the best viewpoints to be had in the ‘acropolis.’ Galronus heaved a sigh beside him and handed him a wooden cup that sloshed. Fronto nodded his thanks and took it, peering out across the night.

  The fire was being contained, though not as well as everyone would like. Fronto winced at the memory of that uncomfortable moment when they had returned to the palace from their successful assault on the Pharos Island fort.

  They had left the majority of the First Cohort to garrison the fort, which, along with its twin on the mole, commanded the harbour entrance. There was still a way into the harbour, through the arch in the Heptastadion that connected Pharos to the mainland and formed the western border of the great port, but it was narrow and could admit but one ship at a time. There was now little danger of an enemy fleet sailing into the harbour again, and Caesar’s ships would be able to depart in the morning to seek reinforcements and supplies, safe in the knowledge that they could return to port securely. It had been a victory, without doubt.

  Fronto, Galronus and the centurion had sailed back to the Palace Harbour with four centuries of men, and the legate had immediately reported to Caesar.

  The general had been standing at a window with some local administrator, discussing something while the queen, her expression black, had been at the table of maps. As Fronto had clomped into the room and bowed his head, Cleopatra the Seventh, disputed queen of Aegyptus, had looked up and riveted him to the wall with a glare.

  ‘You are the one who burns my city?’

  Fronto had been preparing to report with his usual manner, opening with the good news, putting the best spin he could on the bad, but had the rug somewhat pulled out from beneath him with this abrupt introdu
ction.

  ‘The fire is my doing, unintentionally, your Majesty.’

  ‘Your unintentional fire rages through my capital, soldier. I entered into an alliance with the general here in order to restore Alexandria and the Black Land to control and peace, and to put down dangerous generals and idiot brothers. Of what value is securing a city that is little more than ash and bones. What have you to say for yourself?’

  Fronto bridled. It was not the queen’s right to interrogate him, yet the general seemed oblivious to the conversation, deep in discussion with his administrator. The legate cleared his throat.

  ‘Your rebel general moves through the city like a plague, Majesty. His army is greatly superior in numbers. Since I had not the manpower to fight for control of the fleet, I was left with two choices: surrender them to the enemy, or destroy them. Because of what we did, we now have a safe supply route and the harbour is under our control. Had we left the ships for Achillas we would be entirely cut off and his forces would now have far increased freedom of movement. We did what we had to.’

  ‘You have spent long enough in this kingdom to realise how dry and flammable things are, soldier. Fire is a killer in any city. I understand that Rome burns with unpleasant regularity, so you should know the dangers. Now Alexandria burns.’

  Fronto shook his head. ‘One thing Achillas does not want is the city destroyed, for all he confronts us. His men are dousing the flames and restricting the fire. It has not spread further than the port district and a small area of the city beyond. In the grand scheme of things, it could be far, far worse.’

  ‘You should have scuttled the ships instead.’

  ‘That would have taken hours longer, Majesty. We simply did not have time. The ships would have fallen to Achillas and my men would be dead.’

  ‘Then you should have pushed them out to sea before igniting them, where they were safely away from the city.’