They hurried into position immediately. Every two paces along the northern edge, facing the enemy, a slave arrived with a mattock, another with a basket of detritus and a third with three sudis stakes over their shoulder. Between them they also carried mallets, nails, lengths of rope and more. Everything required.
Each slave, under the instruction of the legionaries behind them, went to work. One hacked at the ground for a short while, breaking up the gritty soil to allow for extra traction, then stepped back and produced more equipment. The second slave then tipped their basket out beyond the broken soil, comprising a collection of broken pot sherds, jagged stones, thorny brambles and more. Every naturally occurring obstacle that threatened the feet and legs of an attacker, all of which had easily been gathered en route. They too stepped back, the trio now working together as the three sudis stakes were put into position, criss-crossed like a giant wooden caltrop, presenting sharpened points to all sides. They then used the rope lengths to tie them all together. In mere moments there was an impenetrable fence of sharp timber, fronted by a patch of troublesome ground, all along the edge of the slope, such that the legions awaited attack on the hill behind them.
It was so swiftly done that it impressed even those who’d been involved in its planning. All this and without more than a few words of advice and command from the legionaries, who would usually be doing the labouring. Instead they waited, resting. They would not be exhausted from their labours in the coming hours, while still having put the defences in place. Similar lines were now being drawn around the flanks, too.
A series of loud horn blasts echoed out across the valley from the fortress at the far side. Fronto’s gaze shot to the north once more, away from their works. The gates of Pharnaces’ fortress were open and his men were filtering out through them in droves.
‘Is this it?’ asked a man close by, and Fronto turned to see that he was now at the edge of the Sixth’s First Cohort, and Decimus Carfulenus stood implacable, vine cane drumming slowly on his greave.
Fronto shrugged. ‘If King Deiotarus’ summary of the man is correct. Caesar seems to think so. Personally, in my opinion, only a fool would abandon a place like that and come at us.’
‘A fool or a man who knows he can win,’ Carfulenus pointed out.
Fronto nodded absently. It was true. An attack would be foolish in most ways, but that depended upon more than one factor, many of which were out of the Romans’ hands. The enemy outnumbered them two to one and were in good spirits. That they could fight was evidenced by the sound beating they had given Calvinus’ army last year, and the simple fact that they had so easily carved out a kingdom in such a short space of time.
Fronto began to worry. Perhaps they were good enough. If they were strong enough, brave enough, numerous enough and disciplined enough, then the sudis fence and the broken pottery awaiting them on the slope could be wholly inadequate.
His hand went up once more to the figurine of the luck goddess at his neck. Please, Divine Fortuna, don’t let us have come through all those months of shit in Aegyptus just to fall now.
He watched, tense. Across the wide valley, the army of the would-be king of Pontus was lining up in formation before their walls. What was he up to? The army was huge. And disciplined. He could see that from the efficiency with which they moved from garrison positions to an army on a war footing, spread across the slope. That did not bode over-well.
Somewhere along the line, a Roman officer gave the legions the order to fortify. Immediately, the front lines of legionaries began to go to work, taking mattocks from the slaves nearby and starting to dig turfs to create an additional rampart behind the stake fence. Fronto watched his own men begin to do the same and contemplated telling them to stand to again, but decided against it. Everything right now was a judgement call until they were committed, and Pharnaces might just be flexing his muscles. Certainly he seemed to be doing so, lining his forces up in direct sight, so heavily outnumbering the Romans and with such clear discipline.
Fronto chewed his lip, not really sure whether he wanted Pharnaces to attack or not. If he did so now, with things the way they stood, it suggested that he was confident of victory. In moments, the entire Bosporan force was in position, watching them from across the valley.
A weird silence descended, broken only by the crack and thud of mattocks and shovels as the men of four legions worked feverishly to improve their defences, somewhat negating the entire point of keeping the men fresh. At least they’d not had to lug the gear here because of the slaves. Fronto wondered who had ordered the works, and turned to look back at Caesar, who sat astride his horse at the high point with Deiotarus and a few others. What he saw did not fill him with confidence. Caesar was gesturing wildly at the enemy and was involved in what appeared to be an argument with the king. In that moment, Fronto suspected that it was Deiotarus of Galatia who had given the order for further fortification, which had then been picked up by Caesar’s legions, and that the general was arguing against it. That the two commanders of this army could not agree did not improve matters. Indeed, even Caesar looked uncertain, going by his movements and general manner. After one last fevered discussion Caesar issued further orders, and riders hurtled from there all around the army. Fronto waited, tense, until the courier reached him.
‘Sir, the consul orders work to start on general fortification. Deploy the front line beyond the defences and have the legion work on a rampart and ditch.’
The king had won out, then. Fronto looked back across the valley. The enemy still were not moving, just standing in ordered lines. What were they up to? Their inscrutability was playing havoc with decision making in the Roman command. With a nervous shake of the head, Fronto relayed the orders to Carfulenus and immediately the front rows of legionaries began to shuffle carefully through gaps that were hastily made in the sudis fence. Once they were there and lined up, the Sixth went to work on a full defensive system.
Caesar would be irritated, he knew. The general had been determined to end this today, but now that was looking unlikely. The enemy did not seem to have taken the bait the way Caesar had expected, but were instead posturing and showing their strength. In response, Deiotarus, who had already lost one battle to the invader, had advocated preparing for the worst.
And that was what they were doing.
Fronto twitched, his fingers drumming a tattoo on his belt. He didn’t like this one bit. Not just the not knowing what was going to happen, but also the not being sure what he even wanted to happen.
If Pharnaces suddenly broke into the attack, it meant he was prepared and believed he could win. And worse, now that the legions were at work digging, and not lined up for the fight, the army was less prepared than ever to deal with an attack. An assault by the enemy, despite being what Caesar had hoped for, might now be the very last thing they needed.
On the other hand, a lengthy face off and siege across the valley, with both sides entrenched, sounded like a hell none of them could wish for, a repeat of Alexandria but without the comforts. Neither force had the supply chain in place for something like that. It would be dreadful, have an uncertain outcome, and every day of delay would make things worse for the consul elsewhere in the republic.
So that left just one other option. If the enemy were not going to charge the Roman line, which was what they had hoped for yet feared at the same time, and no one was prepared for a long-term siege, then that meant the only option was for the legions of Rome to march across the valley, and attempt to storm an extremely well defended fortress manned by an army twice their size. Hardly a move to be welcomed.
The gods had sanctioned this, hadn’t they? What were the silly divine bastards playing at? Briefly, he wondered whether actually the white lamb had been corrupt and riddled with disease, displaying divine warnings, and the general had hidden it and pronounced it clean. He wondered whether Caesar had primed the priest in white with what he needed men to hear. Roman generals had done as much before, Fronto knew, an
d he would hardly put such a thing past Caesar, for whom appearance was a weapon. Were the gods truly actually against them, and Caesar was hiding it all?
He fretted.
‘What the fuck are they?’ said a soldier somewhere nearby, earning himself a smack across the shoulders from a centurion’s vine stick.
But his sentiments were being echoed along the line. Fronto peered off across the valley, following many pointing digits. Something else was happening there. He watched in fascination as chariots filed out of the gates of the fortress and arced around the periphery of the gathered Bosporan King’s force.
As the vehicles were brought in front of the enemy infantry, they settled into a single line in wide-spaced formation. Fronto peered at them. At this distance, perhaps three quarters of a mile, he could make out much about the chariots even with his eyesight. They were quadrigas of sorts, the traces fitted Greek-style, with a single line of four horses. On the platform stood two figures, one burdened with a spear, the other seemingly unarmed. A warrior and a driver, then.
‘I hate chariots,’ he muttered.
‘Especially this sort,’ said another horseman coming to a halt next to him. Fronto turned to see one of the Galatian officers beside him.
‘Why?’
‘Scythed chariots,’ the man said quietly.
Fronto’s lip twitched. Rome had faced Pontic scythed chariots three times during the Mithridatic wars. The first time had been a disaster. A complete slaughter and routing of the Roman forces. Tales had abounded for years thereafter of men watching their friends literally sliced in half by the long, heavy scythe blades jutting from the axles. Men who were still screaming in agony while their top halves lay ten feet from the bottom, the ground in between a mess of blood, churned turf and ground-under intestines.
Of course, Rome was nothing if not adaptable. When the Pontics had tried to repeat their victory, the Roman commander had been prepared. They had leapt aside and let the chariots pass through the lines, where they were taken down with javelins. And the third time they had lured the chariots into charging where a line of sharpened stakes awaited them.
This would be different. The Romans did not have the space on the hilltop to open up and let the vehicles through. The enemy had watched them put the stake fence in position and so would not allow themselves to die upon it. That meant that they had some other tactic in mind.
‘What will they do?’
The Galatian officer shrugged. ‘Given their capabilities, the width of four horses, and their knowledge of what awaits them, I know what I would do. Charge at the front ranks, then issue a sharp turn at the last moment, and race along the line.’
‘Wouldn’t that put them at a rather heavy risk? They’d be open to attack.’
The Galatian’s face soured. ‘Wait ‘til you see the speed they move and the length of that scythe blade. By the time a rider gets taken down, he’ll have cut a hundred men in two. They know what they’re doing, and if their chariots are used right, then they are a true nightmare in the field. Fortunately, few commanders ever really use them to their best advantage. Best pray Pharnaces’ master of chariots has not learned from history.’
Fronto tried to picture the effect of a chariot with scythed wheels turning just right so that it ran along the front ranks of legionaries, its blade at waist height, strong enough and moving fast enough to shear straight through both a shield and the man holding it. The moment he managed to picture it, he wished he hadn’t, and that he could unsee the mental image.
Bringing the men back inside the line might be the answer, but then they would just find another tactic, he felt certain. No, if the chariots reached them, there would be trouble. The best solution would be to stop them getting this far. If only they could spread caltrops out down there, they might be able to do so, but there wasn’t time.
He frowned, and turned to the man beside him. ‘What are you doing over here anyway?’ he muttered to the Galatian.
The man smiled. ‘My king has ordered our officer corps to join yours during the battle. Anything new we might learn from the lions of Rome is of value to the army of the king.’
Fronto nodded. ‘At the moment you’ll just be learning how screwed we are,’ he grunted, peering at the distant chariots once more. Slowly, though, he began to smile. ‘No. Perhaps not.’
As he watched, there was a distant tumultuous roar of raised voices, blarting horns and thundering swords and spears, and the army of Pharnaces surged forth down the slope.
They were coming. For better or for worse, the army of Pharnaces was moving to attack, chariots at the fore. Fronto turned and waved to one of the message riders. The horseman trotted over, and he bowed.
Fronto pointed at the man. ‘Take these orders to every commander above the rank of centurion, and do it quickly…’
Chapter Twenty Six
The units were moving into position, as the constant echo of calls and whistles attested. A Syrian officer in his bronze armour, long white robe beneath, bow over his shoulder and crowned with a decorative conical helmet, attended Fronto with a curt bow.
Fronto gestured to the legionary he had ready, unarmoured and breathing deeply, carrying only a white stick. ‘Four hundred paces. Go.’
The man burst into a quick jog, trying to measure the paces of his journey but at the quickest speed possible, pushing between the men and out through a temporary gap in the sudis fence. As he ran down the slope, Fronto returned to watching the enemy. He had marked out in his mind one of the region’s interminable dry stream beds some way across the valley, and a small stand of juniper somewhat closer. Two hundred paces closer, he was confident. One thing about having faced an army across open ground more times than most people bought new boots, was that a man became a fairly shrewd judge of speeds and distances.
Two hundred paces.
Two hundred paces was the maximum range of a trained archer with any level of constancy and accuracy. And the archers that were now falling in all along the Roman lines, behind the first ranks of legionaries, were all trained units and good, solid veterans. Cretans, Hamians, Carians and Galatians. All with strong, compact composite bows of wood, horn and sinew.
The legionary was now at four hundred paces from Fronto, which also meant from the lines of archers. He peered through the gap between legionaries, opened up specifically for his sighting. Tense, he waited for the oncoming chariots. The legionary hammered in his white stick, eyes darting nervously to the flood of vehicles now at the base of the far slope and racing across the flat valley bottom with deadly speed, the blades on their wheels now visible and gleaming in the dawn light.
This would be Rome’s fourth encounter with the deadly vehicles in this region. Only the first battle had been lost, and Fronto was determined not to be the man commanding the second.
The lead chariot reached the dry river bed. Fronto started counting, rhythmically.
One hundred and fifty paces.
One hundred paces.
Fifty paces.
The chariot passed the juniper. They had traversed the two hundred paces between the two landmarks to Fronto’s count of twenty two. He took a steady breath, and looked back and forth along the Roman line. Archers were falling in in blocks, nocking arrows, just one each – the rest remained in their quivers. This had to be perfectly timed, and that could only be done with one shot.
Twenty Two. He chewed his lip. But there would be a count of one or two while they drew and released – he had to take that into account. He knew from the experience of a score of battles that it took roughly a count of three for the arrow to travel two hundred paces, but he’d almost forgotten to factor in the draw and release time.
Twenty four, then.
Oh, and a count of two for the order to be relayed. Nearly forgot that.
Twenty six.
He became aware that the legionary down the slope was still standing by his white stick, waiting for the order to return. Fronto waved him back frantically, and the soldier
hurtled up the slope towards the legion, where a mate waited with his gear in the fifth line. Behind the man, at the bottom of the valley, the chariots were closing, the racing infantry of Pharnaces’ army surprisingly close behind, the momentum of charging down the slope still with them.
Momentum. Slope.
Damn it. He hadn’t factored in the slope. Uphill riding instead of down. How much would that slow a chariot? Fretting like mad, and wishing he could ask someone, he plucked a number from the air, the one that for some reason was hovering on the tip of his tongue. Three. Oh, how he hoped that was the work of Fortuna.
Three it was, then. Subtract three for the change in gradient.
Twenty three, then.
Minus the three seconds of flight time, of course.
Twenty in all.
Gods, but he hoped he was right.
And then there was no more time to plan. The chariots had crossed the wide flat area and were beginning to climb the slope. The enemy foot were now further behind and lagging more and more, the chariots still moving at horse speed, while the infantry were no longer boosted by advantageous terrain.
Fronto drew a deep breath. The chariots had spread out into a line as long as the Roman front, plenty of room between each to allow time and space for manoeuvring. There was little doubt now in Fronto’s mind that the Galatian officer had been absolutely on the nose with his theory. They intended to turn at the last moment and ravage the front line. If not, then they were going to plough through the line of men and impale themselves on the sudis fence, and no enemy was that stupid.
Three.
Two
One.
The chariots passed the white stick marker. Fronto began to count.
Twenty…
He couldn’t help himself, so tense was he, and his fingers began to tick off the numbers as they dropped in his head. He became aware of other men gathering around him and made sure not to lose count or change speed as he glanced back. Caesar and the king had come forward, along with several senior officers, having been informed that the archers had moved on legate Fronto’s orders. The legions had stopped digging and building now, and had readied themselves for a fight once more. The brave lad who’d run with the white stick was armoured again at last and being helped on with his baldric as a friend tied the fastenings on his helmet’s cheek pieces.
Sands of Egypt Page 38
