The south, though, was where the main battle lay. The vast forces of the Aegyptian general were engaged with the Roman army that had disembarked, along with the lead elements from the cohorts in the fort. To make matters complicated for the observers above, the Gabiniani fought now, and it was somewhat difficult at times to quite tell what was happening given their similarity to the legionaries with whom they struggled.
One thing was sure, though: the enemy’s early confidence had swiftly begun to waver. Where they felt they had the Romans pinned and terrified, they were now fighting hard, the legions having advanced in a swift, professional manner and launched into battle without fear.
It was hard to tell from here what would happen. The Roman force was fighting with a more coherent and forceful approach, and was making headway under Salvius Cursor, trying to drive a wedge into the enemy centre in an attempt to cut their force in half, and perhaps gain access to their command at the rear. But the enemy were still steady and remained more numerous by far. Fronto would not be willing to wager even a denarius on the result just now. Either side could break at any time, with just the slightest sign of trouble.
Salvius was just visible in the press as a gleaming silver and crimson figure at the forefront of the central push. He was a mad bastard, though some of that seemed to have ebbed since arriving in this benighted country and the death of Pompey, but once his blood was up and his sword bared, there were few men better prepared to wade screaming into the enemy and give heart to their men.
On the flank, conversely, Caesar was being far more strategic. Accompanied by members of his praetorian guard, he darted in and out of the action, swiftly, bloodying his blade in places where he could appear heroic with the minimum of true danger, yet his very presence and his flowing scarlet cloak brought courage to all those around him.
Fronto thought back on the Caesar who had personally stood with the men against the Belgae, part of the line in a desperate fight, and he realised that this man was not really the same Caesar. The one who had stood with his legionaries had been a reputation-hungry general, struggling for political position and more at home with the soldiers than with most noblemen. But over the last few years, since the end of Gallic resistance and the rise of the consul’s feud with the senate, he had changed. He had become a more political animal. Cassius had seen it. Others too. Fronto hadn’t really, until now.
He sighed. In truth they were all changing. He himself was getting too old for this profession. Ten years ago that would have been him down there at the head of the wedge. Instead now younger men led the fight, while Fronto had joined the old men at the back.
All things changed.
Some changes were less welcome than others, though, as he was rudely reminded by a sudden desperate series of whistles off to the northeast. His gaze pulled back from the ebb and flow of battle before the fort and to the ships of the Roman fleet docked along the harbour. Sailors from the vessels were mobilising, grabbing weapons and moving to the front of the ships.
Aegyptian units had begun to put in an appearance from various streets along the waterfront, off to the flank of the main fight. Fronto felt his spirits sink. This enemy commander was a constant series of unexpected tricks, the devious bastard.
With the Roman forces committed to the fight, the enemy, who had huge numbers, had brought a few more of them sneaking through the streets to come from the flank. There, only the sailors of the fleet could react.
They would not be enough.
Fronto watched, heart in mouth, as units of sailors dropped from the ships and took what positions they could find on the dock. A few had bows, many slings. More had darts or simply a handful of stones. Conversely, the enemy now emerging from the harbour streets were a mix of light spear men, skirmishers, and medium infantry in chain shirts and with solid shields.
As they formed in the open and began to move forwards, flanking and endangering the entire fight, the sailors started to act. Fronto had to hand it to them: they had courage, if not much in the way of common sense. Perhaps if Brutus had been among the commanders here he might have found a better solution, but he was out across the harbour, dealing with the enemy boats, and this would be the work of Tiberius Nero, the pirate hunter.
Slings whirred, arrows thrummed, and stones and darts arced silently up in the air.
The legate atop the tower watched tensely. Against all odds, the sailors were having an effect. They might not be professional soldiers like the legionaries away to the south in the open ground, but many had honed their missile skills aboard their ships over the years, bringing down birds or spearing fish, if nothing else. They might not be well armed and armoured, but their accuracy was impressive.
The enemy were trying to keep their formations and advance, but they were hampered by the detritus and general junk across the dock, forcing them to continually slow and navigate around obstacles, and all the time missiles were thudding into them or plummeting from lobbed shots down into the heart of the mass. Indeed, even as Fronto watched, whole units of infantry slowed their advance to a crawl, trying to maintain cohesion under a constant hail of stones, darts and the occasional arrow. Men with shields began to raise them and advance in imitation of the testudo.
Fronto’s gaze snapped back and forth now, teeth biting into lower lip. Just as the Roman army was spread dangerously thin across Alexandria, so the forces currently at their command were equally thin here. Perhaps a cohort of the Sixth remained on the Heptastadion, but they were all involved in the shipping forward of equipment, supporting the infill of the bridge which had recently become a priority, or launching missiles against the Aegyptian boats that continued to threaten and to approach the bridge. No one could realistically be drawn from there. The main fight was ongoing, the ebb and flow of battle quite noticeable. Only Roman efficiency and unit cohesion was making sufficient difference to stand up to the superior numbers of the enemy. There were men there who could easily peel off and hurry along the port side to aid the ships’ crews, but to remove any unit, even the smallest, from the main Roman force would endanger the entire engagement. A tiny change could see the enemy triumphant there.
No men could be spared to aid the sailors, and Fronto could see the trouble there already.
The enemy were struggling to navigate the dock side, between the obstructions and the constant hail of missiles, but that was not going to be the case for long. More men were appearing behind them now, and the presence of a better reserve was boosting the morale of those beleaguered enemy units. Moreover, they were finally coming close to clearing the obstacles into an open space, which would give them a clear run at both the sailors and the flank of the main Roman force.
But all of that was not what was about to ruin things. That pleasure went to the sailors themselves. They were doing well; better than they or Fronto had any reason to expect. But they were becoming overconfident. They were jeering at the faltering enemy units, failing entirely to notice the fact that that faltering was coming to an end, and that they were beginning to move properly. Men had even paused in their barrage to turn and hoist their tunics, baring their backsides at the Aegyptians as though they had already won. They felt victorious. Unbeatable.
Over-confidence can kill an army every bit as easily as fear.
Fronto watched with a sense of foreboding as the first Aegyptian troops cleared into open ground. A light infantry unit armed with swords and shields but just tunics, they suddenly dropped into a square, shields clacking together in a wall, eyes low and glowering over the top, as fierce-looking as any advancing legion.
The sailors nearby continued to pelt them with darts and rocks and smooth sling stones, laughing and invoking gods. Fronto shivered. Had Brutus been down there, or even Fronto himself, he would now have those men withdrawing to the ships in good order, but swiftly, and the ones still aboard the vessels untying ropes and manning oars ready to move.
They still stood a chance as long as someone made the decision to withdraw to th
e ships and put out to sea, but the window of opportunity was closing rapidly, and no one down there seemed to see it. Over-confidence. The men were feeling victorious and heady valour was overwhelming their sense of danger. Desperate now, watching the point of no return edging closer, Fronto turned to that cornicen on the wall.
‘Do you know naval calls?’
The man frowned. ‘No, sir.’
‘Not even a retreat?’
‘No, sir. I know the general command order to retreat that applies to all units in the field, but that probably doesn’t include sailors.’
Fronto grunted. ‘And that would pull our men out of the fight anyway.’
Nothing he could do. No one down there was preparing, and no one up here could tell them to. If the sailors pulled back, the main Roman force would turn to meet the flanking attack and might just hold the enemy, especially if accompanied by missiles from ships out on the water and untouchable.
But that wasn’t happening.
The officers of the ships had little experience in combat, other than vessel to vessel, and they had no clue what was coming. Fronto did, and he watched in gloom as the fight along the dock changed nature in a heartbeat. Had they been prepared, the sailors would even now be pouring onto the ships, which would already be moving away. But they remained in port, and the sailors continued to loose missiles and jeer, all too late.
The first ship load of sailors realised their mistake as that front unit of light infantry broke into a charge, roaring as they ran. The sailors exploded in panic, their triumphant exultation turning to terror in an instant. They raced for their ships, but only a few would make it safely.
Now, all along the port, enemy units were clearing their obstacles and running at the sailors who had been bothering them through their advance, and with nothing in the way, the Romans stood no chance. Spearmen and swordsmen piled into the Roman sailors and began to massacre, even as a general rout began, every Roman sailor running for perceived safety individually, ignoring the rest. Chaos broke out as men swarmed back to their ships, with Aegyptians howling at their backs, men dying in droves.
Fronto rubbed his temple. He could see no way to salvage this. It was a disaster, just as he’d anticipated. They’d been doing better than anyone could have hoped, but the tipping point had now passed, and the enemy were ascendant.
He fought against the urge to have the cornicen sound the general retreat. If they fell back now, they could still rally and withdraw professionally. But his mind furnished him with the memory of being shouted down in the briefing by men who were confident that controlling the dockside was imperative, and that doing so was feasible. If he sounded the retreat now, there would be repercussions. Still, he almost did so.
‘Wet your lips,’ he called down to the musician. ‘Any moment now, we’re going to call the general retreat. Watch for my signal.’
He chewed his lip again. Every heartbeat they fought on meant the faint chance that they might break through the main enemy force and turn the tide. But every heartbeat also put them one step further from an orderly withdrawal and towards a rout.
Salvius Cursor fought on with his men amid the enemy, unaware of the danger. Caesar, out on the flank, now had to be aware of the plight of his ships, yet he continued to press. Some of his men had reformed facing the dock side, so they knew what was happening, but the consul had still not sounded the call.
Caesar would not retreat.
Damn the man, but pride was less important than saving the army.
Fronto turned to the cornicen, ready to give the order to retreat in spite of his commander, when everything went wrong.
Someone on the Roman left flank, close to Caesar’s position, had seen the destruction on the dock side and had panicked. As all along the quayside men fled to their ships or perished while attempting to do so, and the more precipitous of captains tried to pull their ships out to safety, even with inadequate sailors, so the Roman flank crumbled. The chaos that reigned across the shoreline spread to the main force and took hold there.
Fronto pointed at the cornicen. ‘Sound the retreat.’
‘Sir?’
‘Do it. The army’s about to rout. Let’s see if we can save some order.’
But it was too late. As the musician blared out the call to retreat, the entire left flank of the Roman force was already pulling back in a disordered and chaotic manner, running for their lives. Fronto spotted Caesar in the middle of it, somehow separated from his bodyguards and waving his sword in the air in an attempt to rally the men who were fleeing past him, ignoring him. Fronto was suddenly reminded in an unpleasant way of that debacle at Dyrrachium, when the standard bearers had fled the field past their furious general.
Was this to be another Dyrrachium? Perhaps that was what had Caesar so determined. Perhaps he intended to make this another Pharsalus, not another Dyrrachium. If so, he was going to be sorely disappointed.
The army was disengaging now. Fronto was relieved to note that his timely call, while it had been too late to avert disaster entirely, had at least saved the Roman centre and right, who were pulling back in order, presenting a united front to the chanting Gabiniani, and preventing a slaughter. They were retreating towards the gate of the fort, whence they could surge through to safety. Not all were so ordered, though. The left flank that had routed in panic were now racing for the ships along the port. There was no hope of them pushing their way through the forces rushing to the fort, and with the more numerous and currently victorious Aegyptian army following them, the few units that had started this along the dock were of little import.
Desperate legionaries were surging up the boarding ramps already, while others had been caught and bogged down by those enemy units. The dockside was utter chaos, and Fronto could see barely-manned ships already pulling out into the water, while others were trying to leave, but failing as fleeing Romans and howling Aegyptians all tried to board them. Fronto could see that they were going to lose ships here. Even if they weren’t captured, they would be sunk.
Worst of all, there was nothing Fronto could do about it. He had started them pulling back, even if it had been too late. All he could manage now was watching the effects and hoping that something could be saved from all of this.
The dock was a disaster. Those flanking enemy units that had swamped the shoreline had formed into small blocks of men that sat like islands amid the torrent of fleeing Romans. Due to the panicked nature of the retreat, none of the routing men were concerned with removing that danger, and so those Aegyptians went on untouched, islands of violence in a stream of fear. As Romans fled past them, heedless of the danger, enemy swordsmen and spear men lanced out and slashed, cutting down swathes of desperate, running men.
Romans were pouring onto ships, but so were Aegyptians, and some legionaries were even engaged in fighting with their own sailors as the men of the fleet fought to protect their ships and prevent them being flooded by far too many soldiers. Fronto shut his eyes and sent up a prayer to Fortuna, for clearly only she could save them now.
Things were at least going better in the open space before the fort. The careful withdrawal to the gate had been ordered enough that the enemy only advanced in their wake slowly and cautiously, aware that running after the Romans might just swing things back once more. Men were pouring through the gate by the century and hurtling across the fort, heedless of the corpses and caltrops, running out onto the Heptastadion, and making for the island of Pharos and Roman safety, almost a mile distant.
The bulk of the army should make it back, but the debacle at the dock could yet prove serious enough to end Caesar’s ambitions in Alexandria.
This sudden recollection of the consul struck Fronto, and he scanned the surging armies for a sign of the white tunic, bronze cuirass and scarlet cloak of the general. Caesar had been on the left flank, which had collapsed and fled in panic. He had no way to enter the fort with the main withdrawal, and would be caught in the general flight for the ships.
&nb
sp; * * *
Aulus Ingenuus struggled this way and that in the press. Once or twice he caught sight of his men, each identified by the red plume on their helmet, but the chances of pulling any kind of unit together in this chaos were negligible. The worst thing, though, was losing sight of the consul.
As the Roman force had suddenly turned and broke, fleeing to the ships, the praetorians, just eight of them here right now, had pulled in to protect the general, but Caesar had pushed them back, cursing. Finding adequate room without the protective press of his guards, the consul had managed to stand tall and cry out the orders to stand fast. For effect, his sword whirled in the air, continually catching the blazing sunlight and flashing blindingly.
The dazzling steel and his iron voice went unnoticed, though, in the rout, and as the press thickened, the guards around him had gradually, one by one, been pushed back and forced away by the flow of humanity.
Ingenuus tried to rise above the crowd, continually knocked back by fleeing, desperate soldiers with no care for propriety or the order of rank. His ruined hand with just three fingers, the remnant of an engagement a decade ago in Gaul, came up to shelter his eyes as he searched among the tide of human heads, his good left hand wrapped around his cavalry blade.
Then he saw it. Caesar’s head, bare and grey-haired, among the shining helmets of the legions. The general was being gradually forced back, but continued to exhort his men to stand their ground. No cornicen or signifer stood nearby, though, to echo his commands, not that it would have made the slightest difference. The battle was lost, and no amount of charisma or Romanitas from their commander was going to stop that.
Sands of Egypt Page 21
