Briefly, Ingenuus noted two red plumes converging on the general, and thanked the gods that his men were still carrying out their duty. Taking a steadying breath, he turned in the direction of his commander and began to heave his way through the sea of men, trying to cut across the retreating flow. Here and there he foundered as men struck him with elbows, shoulders and knees in the press. Someone trod heavily on his boot and he felt the hobnails bite down painfully, but ignored it as he forced his way on. After some time pushing through the press, he rose once more, trying to get his bearings. It took precious moments to spot the general, during which he was once more pummelled and occasionally forced down below the press of men. The grey-haired consul was still there, with the two red plumes denoting his bodyguards. He was closer to the shore again now, the tide carrying him inexorably that way even as he fought to halt the rout.
It was then that Ingenuus spotted the enemy. A banner of some weird design bobbed and weaved above the sea of heads some forty paces from the general. A banner meant soldiers. Enough soldiers to protect it. The general was in extreme danger.
Ingenuus snarled and pushed on, angling towards the general once more. He was not going to let Caesar fall now. Not here. Not in such a stupid situation. Raised from lowly cavalry command on the fields of Gaul, Ingenuus had been made commander of Caesar’s praetorians and had been faithful to that position for a decade, following the consul across the world and doing what had to be done to keep him from harm.
Here, now, in Alexandria, the general was in as much danger as he had ever been, whether it be from the enemy unit closing on him, or even from his own panicked and routing men. Ingenuus would not have it. He was the general’s bodyguard, and he would protect Caesar no matter what.
Another pause, and he rose with difficulty above the crowd. He was tantalisingly close now, but so were the enemy. That banner was not much more than a dozen paces from Caesar, and only one red plume was in evidence, the second bodyguard having somehow disappeared, either cut down by the enemy, or simply trampled by panicked Romans. Even as he watched, he saw the consul disappear beneath the crowd for precious heartbeats before re-emerging, hair awry, cloak skewwhiff.
Last push.
Ingenuus struggled on. Suddenly, the colour of the bodies through which he was pushing changed, and he realised with an odd shock that he was among Aegyptians, both forces so tight in the press that there was no space between them.
His sword cut and stabbed as best he could manage in the tight confines of the mob, and he found that using his other elbow, forehead, knee, and even once teeth, was as viable as a true weapon. It was with regret that he head-butted a fleeing legionary by accident, suddenly bursting free of the Aegyptians.
He spotted Caesar, then. The general was furious, his face almost puce with anger as his own men pushed him this way and that in their flight. The remaining guardsman struggled to protect him, but there was little he could do other than act as a human shield and fight off the worst of the press. Those Aegyptians were there now, too, right on the general.
Ingenuus threw himself forwards, diving at the enemy. In a moment, his man was there with him, and he caught sight of Caesar, just behind him, as Ingenuus and his guardsman went to work, hacking and carving at the advancing Aegyptians. In a worrying moment, the general was pushing forwards, still purple-faced and breathing like a bull, but Ingenuus turned even amid the fighting and shook his head.
‘Go, Consul. Go now.’
With that, he concentrated on the enemy. A man landed a lucky blow on his right shoulder and for the first time in ten years Ingenuus was grateful that he’d been forced to retrain with his other hand, as he felt that arm go numb beneath the blow.
They were being pushed now, and space was opening up between the fleeing Romans and the few units of Aegyptians who had pressed forwards, spotting the enemy commander and desirous more than anything of being the man to kill Caesar.
For a moment, Ingenuus considered selling his life here to buy his commander time, but the sudden loss of his fellow guard, under a horrible scything blow from a weird-shaped sword made that seem less reasonable. Alone he would last only moments.
He backed away, as fast as he dared, feet questing for space amid the detritus and the fallen bodies. It was slow work, but he felt a grim satisfaction that he was delaying the enemy advance. For some reason the Aegyptians were wary of him, and their push had slowed, keeping pace with his retreat, their eyes and swords tracking his every movement, waiting for an opening.
He could smell the brine now and hear the commotion at the ships, the lapping of the sea.
He stopped and gripped his sword tight in two hands.
‘Come on then, you bastards. Who’s first?’
There was a tense pause and then they came at him suddenly. One man lunged, overextending, and Ingenuus caught him in the side, a debilitating blow that would lead to a slow and lingering death. Another swiped down, but the officer had ducked to the side, out of the way. He caught a third swing with his blade and knocked it aside before cutting up and into a man’s groin. As blood sluiced down from the man’s crotch and he howled, staggering away, a blow caught Ingenuus, and he lurched back, reeling from the sudden pain in his chest. He glanced down and could see blood among the rings of his metal shirt. It might not be critical, but he had the distinct feeling it was. Indeed, as he fought on, he could feel his breathing becoming tight and shallow. As he swung his sword, so he fought for breath. Something was wrong.
Snarling his defiance, he cut a man across the midriff and spun, slamming his blade into someone’s arm so deep it bit bone. Wrenching it back out, he prepared for another attack, but something struck him in the side of the head, and his helmet moved so that his vision was momentarily blurred and obscured, a gong ringing through his head, pain like a thousand hangovers wracking his brain.
He fell. Reaching up with his numb arm, he tried to use his three fingers to undo his helmet strap, but failed. He realised with dismay that his sword was no longer in his left, and reached up with that one. His helmet came free and a fresh thick flow of blood came with it. He felt light-headed.
Desperately, he tried to stand. He managed to get upright on shaky knees for a moment. Aegyptians were between him and the Romans now, chasing the last fleeing men to the ships. It took his fuggy mind precious moments to spot the general. Caesar was on one of the ships now, high in the prow. His wonderful scarlet cloak had come free and he now held it bundled in his hand as he gestured with his sword.
Ingenuus shook his head at the sight, an action that made him feel distinctly nauseous. The general was far from out of danger. Ingenuus had been on enough ships now to realise that the one Caesar rode was doomed. There were so many men aboard that there was no room for more to crowd up the ramp, and men were even hanging from the ropes and the rails, dangling over the harbour. The ship rode so low in the water that the largest waves were reaching the rail. She was going to go.
Ingenuus winced, ignoring the pain running through him.
‘No sir. Don’t die like that. Not after all this.’
He watched in horror as more desperate soldiers, being hacked at from behind, grabbed onto the starboard rail or swarmed onto the ramp. He saw Caesar recognise the danger then and begin to move, pushing through his own soldiers. The consul was high in the prow, close to the shore, but the shore was now in enemy hands, and the ship was slowly rolling to starboard, towards the jetty. It was going to capsize. Ingenuus watched in dismay as the ship finally gave under the weight of the men trying to board it. As it lurched to starboard and tipped, the general reached the port rail and, without pause or care, threw himself into the water. All along the ship, men were hanging on for their lives, few having the sense to drop into the harbour.
Ingenuus lost sight of the consul as he plummeted from ship to water, cloak in one hand, sword in the other. At that same moment the ship crashed down onto the jetty, the mast shearing, ropes entangling, the roaring of tortured wood
overshadowing everything as the ship’s hull gave way.
The vessel sank, amid the screams of doomed men.
Ingenuus watched for just a moment more, sighing and wiping torrents of blood from his face.
He dropped to his knees. Everything felt so cold, his body heavy like lead.
‘Look to your son, Venus Genetrix,’ he breathed, wishing fortune on the general with his last breath.
He was, mercifully, dead before a passing Aegyptian, angry and cheated of victory, took three goes to hack off his head and carry it back as a prize.
Chapter Fifteen
Fronto’s head snapped back and forth between the army flooding back through the fort and the disaster at the port.
He’d seen Caesar’s ship sink, crashing through the jetty and taking hundreds of souls with it, but he’d also seen the general dive into the water at the last moment. He knew that, as senior officer at the forefront of battle, his duty was to oversee the withdrawal here, but he could not help but watch the harbour debacle, for the consul’s survival was critical.
Without Caesar, why were they here. What would they do?
His gaze scoured the dock side for a quarter of a mile. Aegyptian units were now in complete control of the port, and the few Romans he could see were either rolling around on the ground clutching deadly injuries, or were being herded away as prisoners by whooping natives. The ships had pulled away into the harbour now, or most of them had, anyway. Of the twelve ships berthed at the quayside, two were lost to the deep, one already only visible as masts jutting from the surface, the other caught up in the ruined jetty and lying on its side. A third remained docked, though now under enemy control and swarming with Aegyptians.
Nine were pulling back out across the water, packed with fleeing Romans. It was an ignominious sight, for certain. Not one that Fronto felt Caesar would put in his missives to send back to his adoring public in Rome. At least, not unless he could yet turn the tide and make it glorious, as he had done between Dyrrachium and Pharsalus, or Gergovia and Alesia.
Finally, his heart thumping, Fronto caught sight of the general. The shape of Caesar was visible among dozens of other Romans swimming through the waters. Many soldiers who had plummeted into the harbour had drowned before they could remove their chain shirts, and others were already struggling with the weight of their other gear, occasionally dipping beneath the surface. Most would not make it to safety.
Even as Fronto watched, tense, Caesar, struggling to swim in his bronze cuirass, suddenly disappeared beneath the gentle waves of the harbour. He held his breath, staring at the water, and felt a surge of despair as that glorious crimson cloak suddenly bobbed up to the open air. He almost exploded with relief when a moment later Caesar broke the surface once more, having managed to struggle out of his cuirass in the deep. Treading water while regaining his breath, the white-clad consul gathered his red cloak under his arm and began to swim, arm windmilling and feet kicking, carrying him further and further from danger.
Still, it was a mile to the safe shore, and the ships in between were busy. It was a long way. A young, fit legionary would have difficulty with such a task, let alone a man of fifty some years. His gaze slipped ahead and he realised with a little relief that Brutus had finally got the better of the smaller Aegyptian vessels. One of his warships sat ablaze in the water, its crew having abandoned it, but apart from minor damage, the rest of the fleet there seemed to be intact. The ships that had fled the shore during the disaster were too weighed down with men to consider returning, but a fast, light liburnian from Brutus’ fleet was already heading south once more, making for the troubled general.
Confident that Caesar would be safe, Fronto returned his attention to the task at hand. Cohorts were now through the fort and pounding along the Heptastadion in formation, at a run, making for Pharos once more. At a rough count, there would be perhaps a thousand men still either in the fort or pushing to get inside.
Trouble was far from behind them, though, as the Aegyptian army had clearly sensed their fleeing enemy were getting away and someone among them had kicked them into fresh speed. Instead of cautiously following the retreating cohort, the Aegyptians had begun to engage them. A brief sight of the uniform of a tribune told him that Salvius Cursor was fighting the rear-guard action with his men, keeping the enemy at bay, but he was having trouble. The legion was fighting well, but they were so hopelessly outnumbered now that they could not hold the enemy for long.
Fronto watched the legionaries pouring in through the gate, tense as ever.
‘Sir.’
He looked down at the voice and caught sight of Centurion Carfulenus in the courtyard gesturing to him.
‘What?’
‘You should retreat to the Heptastadion with the others, sir.’
‘Crap. I’m staying right here and commanding the fort. We have to hold the Aegyptians, man.’
The centurion gave him a disapproving look, but Fronto ignored him and peered at the troubled rear-guard. Salvius was in the shit, now, his men being forced back into the crowd of retreating soldiers funnelling into the gateway. His gaze slipped to the north once more, just to confirm that the ship and his general were converging. They were. That at least was no longer a worry.
He watched now until he lost sight of the rear-guard fight, the angle from this rear tower making it impossible to see what was happening right in front of the gate and south wall. He stood, tense, watching his army hurtling back through the fort and onto the great mole, running for the island.
Then a new sound began to manifest, among the din of desperate men. A panicked sound. That worried Fronto. Thus far, the men fighting back to the fort had avoided panic, reacting with solid professionalism, but that thread of sound was something new and ominous.
He peered down into the courtyard, full of seething masses of men trying to get back to the Heptastadion, looking for the source of the panic, and then he spotted it. At the southern gate, men were pointing and shouting into the shadowed archway. Half a dozen soldiers suddenly fell back, clutching arrows that thudded into them.
Fronto felt his heart lurch. The enemy had managed to reach the gate before it was closed. Salvius Cursor had fought as hard as any man could, Fronto was sure, but the numbers were just too much.
Heart thumping, Fronto hurried across the tower top and pounded down the stairs, then along the perimeter wall until he reached the north gate, above the exit to the Heptastadion. There, the angle allowed him to see into the main gate opposite, and what he saw was not an encouraging sight.
Legionaries were still flooding through the fort and out through the other gate beneath Fronto, and Salvius and his men had created a block of iron and bronze in that tunnel, attempting to deny the enemy, but they were in trouble. The Aegyptians had archers placed behind them and periodically raked the Roman lines with arrows, heedless of the fact that a few struck their own men. They could spare the manpower, Salvius could not, and access to the fort was at stake.
He watched, breath held, as legionaries tried desperately to force the great gates closed, but even as they pushed, men fell back with arrows thudding into them, while the enemy pressed in ever greater strength. Then, suddenly, the Aegyptian crowd parted and a cart appeared from the press, hurtling forwards. As the desperate legionaries forced the great gate closed, that cart slammed between the timbers, holding them apart. In desperation, the legionaries tried to push the cart back out, but the weight of men heaving it inside was too much. The gates were lost, and Fronto knew it at that moment.
If the gates were lost, then so was the fort. If the fort fell, then their control of the Heptastadion was in danger. The enemy had withdrawn carefully all the way from the island, drawing the Roman forces forward, extending them, like a clever swordsman tricking his opponent into fatally overextending himself. Then they had struck with confidence, ravaging Caesar’s army and pushing them back.
Damn them.
Carfulenus had seen it coming, hadn’t he? That was
why he was urging Fronto down. Sensible.
Shit.
A new focus of panicked screaming drew his attention and, already anticipating the worst, he turned to look back along the Heptastadion. The enemy’s ships that had been out in the undefendable commercial harbour to the west, on the other side of the Heptastadion, had closed on the great mole, staying a safe thirty paces from the stonework, from which they had begun to launch a barrage of missiles into the soldiers fleeing along it at Carfulenus’ direction..
Fronto snarled. This entire damn battle the command had insisted upon had been invited by the enemy, allowing them to let Rome put their head into the lion’s mouth. The lion had then snapped its jaws shut. Rome was fleeing back to the island, losing everything they had gained since they set foot on the Heptastadion, but while the status quo could settle once more, Aegyptian losses had been paltry, while the Romans had fallen in swathes.
They had to get out. Now. Fast,
His gaze flicked across the harbour once more, and he was grateful to see that the navy was moving. Caesar was being hauled out of the water aboard a fast courier ship. Brutus’ fleet had split. Half had gone towards the bridge in the Heptastadion to prevent any further Aegyptian ships breaking through, the others racing for the southern end of the great mole and the troops now fleeing under enemy missiles. Help was coming. It would be too late to save the fort, but it might help preserve men in the face of this almighty fuck-up.
His attention turned back to the courtyard. Salvius had determined that the gate was lost, and was even now pulling back from it, his men forming a shield wall, with an angled roof from the second row and a straight cover of shields from the lines behind, a testudo without sides that pulled back across the fort, presenting a painted wooden wall to the enemy.
Sands of Egypt Page 22
