Sands of Egypt

by S. J. A. Turney

Their helmets were bronze and archaic-looking, their cheek pieces designed so that when pulled together and tied they almost completely covered the face, embossed with a fierce demonic visage themselves.

  They were clearly some sort of elite force. Perhaps part of a royal guard or something. What was certain was that while most of the enemy were already faltering, they remained fierce and intent on battle. They also represented the most danger, having forced a breach.

  Carfulenus yelled to his men, exhorting them to close the breach, but he was there anyway, for a centurion had to be in the thick of it. He had to be the man leading by example, and right now he was wading into those elite soldiers like a champion gladiator. He may not have the bulk of many of his peers, but he knew he was faster than most. His sword lanced out left, having spotted an opening and seeking a gap in the bronze, where the tip found its way through black leather pteruges and into flesh. Even as the blade bit home, his vine stick, a formidable enough weapon in its own right, came down in an angled overhand blow, smashing into the decorative bronze helmet of another warrior, sending a puff of horsehair plume up into the air as the helmet cracked to the side, dazing, mashing and deafening the head within.He felt something pressing into his midriff and instinctively spun right, the blade that had only failed to impale him due to being blunted by chain shirt skittering off to the side.

  ‘Oh no you don’t you Bosporan turd,’ he snapped, bringing the stick back round for another blow across that man’s face. Even as the man ducked back away, Carfulenus’ rising knee caught him between the legs. The man cried out in agony and staggered backwards, dropping his weapons to clutch in horror at his ruined privates. Leg greaves of bronze that came up over the knee had so many uses…

  As he stuck his blade in another target of opportunity, he was thrown to the side when a warrior punched out with his shield, the bronze boss slamming into the centurion’s ribs. Winded, he staggered for a moment. As he recovered and righted himself, ready to return the favour, the shape of the warrior with the smug, victorious grin and the dented shield boss was replaced with a familiar one.

  ‘Sir?’

  Fronto ignored him, his blade lancing out and back, out and back, out and back like some sort of automated butchery machine, face smeared with blood that clearly wasn’t his, free hand grabbing shields and ripping them to the side so that elbows, knees and even teeth could be employed to their best effect.

  Carfulenus stared for only a moment, and then fell in beside his commander, the two of them working at hacking and slashing, stabbing, kicking and maiming. He gradually became aware that they had healed the breach and were now on the front line of their men. The legionaries were beside and behind them, desperately calling the legate to retreat, the shock of watching their senior officer at the front too much.

  But Fronto wasn’t stopping. They had healed the breach and had killed that small knot of elite guardsmen, but that wasn’t enough. Fronto had kept going. Having reformed the Roman front line, he had stepped forwards and begun to carve his own breach into the enemy in return.

  Carfulenus stared and boggled only for a moment before he began to laugh maniacally. It was impossible to not be impressed. The centurion threw himself in alongside his commander, dragging the men of the First Cohort with him into their freshly-formed breach, and desperately hoping that someone would warn the Hamian archers at the rear to stop their barrage.

  ‘We’re going to break the shitbags, sir,’ he snarled as he carved Rome’s displeasure into a terrified, howling warrior. But the legate was too busy to reply.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Fronto’s blade bit out and slashed with crazed speed and strength, each blow powered by frustration long pent up and now released.

  Months of watching the political tension ebbing and flowing around Caesar, Cleopatra and Cassius, of worrying about the future of Caesar, of Fronto’s service to the consul, and even of the future of the republic. A Bosporan swordsman deep in the press, where they had driven their breach, reacted to suddenly being faced with the snarling, feral legate by raising his shield and cowering behind it. Fronto’s free hand grasped the bronze rim and ripped it to one side, his sword slamming point-first into that narrow V’ between the man’s collar bones, where it ripped deep into flesh, muscle and windpipe. Bastards and their politics.

  Months of being forced to live in a besieged city with the atmosphere of a warm, damp sock, where sweat and burned skin were the norm, and water was a more prized commodity than gold, all because of some damned succession crisis in a state too important for Rome to leave alone, where no claimant to the throne seemed to be worthwhile anyway. Bloody Aegyptus. A warrior’s eyes widened as Fronto dropped to a near crouch, ducking a stabbing spear and slamming the sharp edge of his blade into the hamstrings of the man. As he fell, Fronto nearly followed him, rising slowly and with difficulty on his weak knee.

  Another damned irritation: this getting old. Fronto knew well that his hair was now more shot with grey than ever, and had become aware that when he shaved, the whiskers were now white and brittle, that he had acquired odd hairs in his eyebrows that were steely coloured and with a similar consistency, like wire. He was aware that the wrinkles of his face had become craggy. The problem was that inside he still felt twenty. Still felt he should be able to do everything he used to. But it was being driven home every passing month that he was becoming physically a shadow of the man who had marched into Gaul. Muscles ached, joints hurt and stiffened, breathing was more laboured when he ran, his eyesight seemed to be declining, and there was ever the trouble with the damned knee. Gritting his teeth, he slammed his sword into a man’s side and huffed at the effort it took, even as he pushed the man aside and waded on.

  It did little to improve that latter that young Carfulenus – far too young really for a senior centurion – was hacking and stabbing away next to him with easy violence, displaying not one sign of trouble. Stab. Hack. Slash. Push.

  Then there was the ongoing war. He’d finally decided after Massilia and Ilerda that it was time to give this up and retire. Even without debts Caesar still owed him, there was the wine trade. When he’d last left it, Catháin had already surpassed mere profitability and moved into lucrative areas. From what he understood, he would soon be rich, if he wasn’t already. Of course, it wasn’t done for a man of patrician blood to dabble in trade. Land and finance were the stock of the senatorial class, and trade and mercantilism was below them, the province of the equites. But Fronto also knew damn well just how many senators with ancient names had factors who dealt with just such businesses for them, some of them simply letting their wives deal with the finance and enjoying the benefits. Fronto had just taken one step further in initiating the whole thing himself.

  He’d intended to be back in Puteoli by now, the war over, and his family back in their ancestral home. Or if the war insisted on dragging out, he would at least have been in that villa near Tarraco that he’d inherited from Longinus, still with his family, watching the death throes of the republic from a safe distance.

  Family. It was time to spend the rest of his days with his lovely Lucilia. It was time to watch his boys grow into men. To steer them away from becoming what he’d become. To break the chain of sour militarism and alcohol. To make them productive and bright stars of Rome. But Caesar had managed to drag him east and to Dyrrachium, then to Pharsalus, then Alexandria, and now to Zela. Next, though, there would be Rome, and Fronto would insist that it end for him there. That he finally go home to his family.

  A howling warrior brought a blade down in a strong two-handed blow and Fronto reached up, gripping his own sword in both hands and slamming it in the way, deflecting the strike so that it slid harmlessly off to his left, a hand’s breadth from his shoulder. As the man lurched forwards, sword dropping, Fronto angled his own blade and brought it back down, smashing it across the man’s forearms, breaking the bones in both and chopping deep into the flesh. As his victim dropped away, screaming, Fronto snarled at th
e next man and pushed forwards once more.

  This had to be it. The last battle. He would win Caesar his victory over Pharnaces. A victory over an army twice their size, fought on the enemy’s chosen ground and won with strength and speed. And then it would be over. Caesar wouldn’t need him in the senate. What use was Fronto in debates, after all? He would return to his family and friends, and urge Galronus to join him. He would grow old disgracefully, living that same lavish lifestyle he had shunned as a younger man. He’d damn well earned it. The republic – Caesar in particular – had had his youth. Every hour of his strength and will, he’d poured into these campaigns. Now he was owed. And if Caesar insisted on going to Africa to put Cato down, which he might not need to do if Cassius was right, then Fronto would not be going with him this time.

  He was suddenly well aware of his own words to Cassius on the subject, though. That there could never be a peaceful solution with Cato’s party, at least as long as Labienus was there. And that brought back an image of Titus Labienus. A man Fronto had looked up to. A philanthropist and humanitarian, despite his military genius. A man who could be everything the republic needed. In many ways, an anti-Caesar, Fronto was forced to admit. Somewhere deep inside, Fronto had the feeling that this could never be over until he’d looked deep into Labienus’ eyes and seen if he could be turned from his destructive path.

  That meant the war would go on, and Fronto with it. That meant that this wouldn’t be the last battle. And that unpleasant thought was perhaps the worst of all.

  Fronto bellowed with rage and threw himself at the next knot of men, slamming into them like a wrestler, sending them staggering back into each other, where they fell in a graceless heap. Fronto stared. How was there enough room for them to fall over in this press?

  Something touched his shoulder and he spun, alert, sword coming up, and only just pulled it back in time as he realised that it was the hand of Decimus Carfulenus on his shoulder. His own wild eyes settled on the younger officer and he realised that through the spray of blood and filth on the man’s face, he was grinning, perfect white teeth shining through the muck.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re on the run, sir. Look. The flank is broken.’

  Fronto turned. Space was opening up everywhere now. Men were falling over one another to get away from the bellowing, ferocious legionaries of the Sixth. The entire eastern flank of the army of King Pharnaces was on the run, perhaps two thousand men fleeing the field, racing back down the slope, along and across the valley.

  It suddenly occurred to Fronto that he was no longer standing on a steep incline as he had been when they’d started, and he hadn’t the trouble keeping his footing that he’d had. He was perhaps two thirds of the way down the slope from the Roman camp…

  He turned in shock. He’d realised, of course, that they’d begun to take the fight to the enemy. The moment they had healed the breach in their own lines, Fronto had begun to push forwards, bowing the line once more but this time outwards, into the enemy. He’d formed a breach in their forces in turn, Carfulenus by his side and staunch warriors of the Sixth all around and behind him. But he hadn’t realised just how long he’d been hacking, slashing and pushing, nor quite how far they’d gone.

  He turned, still surprised. The sun was up above the hills now, baking the land with its August heat, making bronze and iron glow, making the blood, mud and piss of the battlefield steam. The front lines of Pharnaces’ force were still way back up the hill behind him, but the professional centurions of the Sixth had been on it. Even as they had descended the slope, the officers had manoeuvred the blocks and lines of the Sixth so that while they continued to push the flanking units down the slope, they had also begun to reform, presenting a solid front along the enemy’s flanks as their peripheral units crumbled. Now, the entire Roman force had become an ‘L’ shape, half boxing in the remaining formed enemy units.

  Even as Fronto watched, he could see the fight now going out of the remaining forces under Pharnaces’ command. With the collapse of their left flank, the centre of the enemy force had come under pressure from the Sixth, who were as wolves now, their blood up and the taste of victory already on their lips.

  A Bosporan soldier ran past and Fronto lanced out with his blade, almost negligently, delivering a deep cut to the man’s thigh as he ran. The fleeing warrior stumbled and fell. Before he hit the ground two legionaries were on him, stabbing and hacking.

  There were no calls for retreat. Pharnaces either still thought he could win, or was so blindly deluded in his avarice that he could not countenance retreat. No horns called for his men to fall back. It was a mistake. Fronto could feel the atmosphere emanating from the Bosporan force. They were on the cusp. He’d made a similar mistake at the Heptastadion. When he’d known the Roman force was in trouble, he should have sounded the retreat earlier, and he’d have saved more lives. As it was, he had avoided utter catastrophe by sounding the call in time to save many. Pharnaces was not quite so astute, apparently. Had he the nous to sound the retreat now, the rest of his army could pull back in good order across the plain and to his fortress. There, he could regroup and prepare to defend against Caesar. He would still outnumber Rome considerably, and there would be time for his army to recover its spirit.

  Still no call came. It would be too late to form an orderly withdrawal any moment now.

  Fronto felt that change in the air. He could almost reach out and grasp the moment that Pharnaces lost the battle. There was a cry from somewhere in the army’s centre. The source couldn’t possibly be identified, for it was just the voice of one man raised in panic as he realised that, while two of his comrades remained between he and the Roman force up the slope, more Roman shapes were visible through the crowd off to his left. They had been flanked, and that knowledge had begun to filter through the huge army.

  It started slowly. Fronto had once watched a building fall down in Rome. Some builder doing a little work on a two-storey street-front structure down the road from his own townhouse had demolished something he’d not been meant to. Turned out that the supporting wall he had broken into had not been the one at the edge of the building upon which they worked, but the main support of the building next door.

  Fronto had watched with fascination. The builder had known what he’d done the moment he did it, for he backed hurriedly along the street away from the wall, shouting to his mates to get out. They did so, abandoning the site like rats leaving a ship. As they’d done that, they had called warnings to the owners and occupants of the next building. Fortunately for them, the family were out and only slaves and servants were in residence, all of whom fled immediately as the entire structure started to tremble like a cold animal, making the same groaning sounds as a very hungry belly.

  They had gathered to watch from a safe distance, residents, builders and onlookers all, as the thing had gone. It had begun slowly. The groaning and the trembling. Then a shudder had run through the entire structure, like a man shivering. Dust and mortar started to puff out from the walls, dropping to the cobbles. A slate fell. Then another. The damaged wall leaned out. Further and further, looking untenable even at the start.

  The groaning had become louder and louder, the wall bowing and changing in shape as pressures from above increased. Slowly, ever so slowly, it had started to fall. Fronto had almost been dying with the anticipation. And then it fell. After a long period of slowly changing and leaning, discarding bits and pieces, the entire building collapsed in on itself. It had come straight down, fortunately, not damaging any of the surrounding buildings, but the blast wave of dust and detritus had engulfed two streets and every figure watching.

  Fronto’s mother had bollocked him for an hour for the state he was in when he’d got home.

  This army went the same way as that building. The groaning of the tortured masonry here was the din of shouting from the men of the centre and the right flank, as they howled their dismay at the collapse of their own supporting wall to the hammer of the S
ixth Legion. And then the structure began to change shape. The central mass started to curve inwards under pressure from the Sixth. Fronto couldn’t see the far side of the field, but he’d be willing to bet that in response to all the pressure, Pharnaces’ right flank would now be leaning outwards, away from the fight.

  Dust, mortar and slates started to come away. Now standing in clear ground where the enemy’s flank had fled, Fronto had an excellent view. Wherever the Roman forces had yet to press the enemy, men were dropping out of the lines and following in the wake of their fleeing fellows. At the rear, the block was beginning to disintegrate, small units of men departing in clusters, safe at the back and running for the security of their fortifications.

  The detritus falling from Pharnaces’ house became bulkier and bulkier, the rear now coming away in clumps as they ran. The groaning of the doomed army became louder and more pronounced. Someone, possibly Pharnaces himself, had finally decided that retreat was called for, but it was pointless. The call was just too late to make any difference now. The horn calls were all but lost amid the cries of pain and terror.

  The army of Pharnaces shuddered en masse, just as the damaged house in Rome had done. Fronto watched it, and knew what was coming next.

  The enemy broke. The entire force suddenly tried to run for safety. Those still caught in the press only fought on as much as they needed to in order to get away. Whole units, hundreds strong, were running now with no thought to order and unit cohesion. In moments the enemy force went from a strong, solid block to a mass flight, every man concerned with his own survival and sparing not a thought for his countrymen.

  Fronto watched as the house collapsed. Pharnaces’ warriors were killing each other in desperate attempts to be past their own. Panic reigned. Worst of all the front of the fighting had still been high up the slope before the Roman camp. As men turned and tried to run, they lost their footing and fell, tumbling over one another and rolling down the hill, picking up wounds, bruises and broken bones, some smashing into the remains of chariots and horses where they still lay amid the press of their own fleeing force. As the Romans stomped slowly down the slope in formation, discipline intact, they constantly passed heaps of panicked enemies, still trying to disentangle themselves, to rise and to flee. As they reached fallen warriors they casually dispatched them with sword blows before stomping on them in hobnailed boots, and pressing on down the slope in the pursuit of the routing force.