Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  Alexander nodded hesitantly. “Because if we lose you, we lose the war, brother.”

  “I told him what I’m going to tell you now. If the gods had wanted me to stay behind the lines, they should have had me born of Jupiter, not of Mars.” Caesarion’s free hand clenched, then unclenched. “The front line is where I belong. So that’s where I’ll be. Till we’ve cleared enough of the siege weapons and other shit they’ve strewn in our path, and can set up proper siege camps of our own on both sides of the city.” He gripped his brother’s thin arm gently. “Gods keep you.”

  “And go with you,” Alexander returned, still looking downcast.

  Chapter III: Eagle

  Martius 21, 16 AC

  Today was actually the spring equinox; once, it would have been the first day of the year for Rome, but for centuries, the celestial event had been sliding later and later in the calendar, and the priests whose job it was to keep the calendar matched to the seasons had abjectly failed to do their jobs, resulting in the reforms to the calendar made by Caesar himself. Which included placing the start of the year in January, or midwinter. At the moment, there were still extra short months inserted into the year, which aggravated Caesarion’s sense of order. Once I actually get to sit on my arse in Rome for more than a day or two at a time, with nothing more pressing on my hands than a delayed wheat shipment or two, I am going to fix the calendar. Bring in the greatest philosophers of Egypt and Hellas. Honor my father somehow in doing it, because his work at least got the right number of days in the year.

  Useless maundering. The spinning of a mind keyed up and with nothing to fix on besides the gradual increase in tension around him as he rode between cohorts of the Tenth Legion, with no light beyond that cast by the waxing moon and torches carried by the men.

  Once, before Marius had reformed the armies, the triarii, the oldest soldiers of a legion, formed its back ranks, helping to keep the lines steady. Ahead of them, men with moderate experience, the principes, and ahead of them? The youngest men, the hastati, had taken the brunt of every attack, and led every charge. In the old days of the Legion, one either died young, or learned rapidly how to stay alive long enough to earn the privilege of standing a little further from the initial fray. This arrangement also had had the advantage of providing fresh, experienced troops after the first shock of combat had passed; when the inexperienced hastati began to falter with fear or exhaustion, they could be recalled without shame, to take a breather, and allow more seasoned men to take the field. If a battle went badly enough for the front lines to retreat as far as the triarii, it was a desperate fight indeed—and the triarii would respond with the kind of grim aptitude that had allowed them to become veterans.

  However, this arrangement hadn’t prevailed since the days of the Republic. Now, experienced soldiers were spread throughout the whole cohort, able to lend their steadying hands and experience to those beside them. Somewhat more democratic, though not in any dangerously Hellene fashion.

  Cavalry, unfortunately, would be almost useless in this fight. Eurydice’s visions were so precise through the hawk’s eyes that she’d been able to point out the presence of disturbed earth in between the hills on which the ballistae had been placed. Essentially, there were narrow strips of available land in between the spike-filled trenches, so that the ballistae themselves could eventually be moved by the defenders if needed.

  And these narrow strips were the kill alleys for the ballistae—and the only available vector for Caesarion’s troops to attack. The cavalry simply didn’t have room to maneuver—men on foot could pick their way through, could remove the stakes that had been planted at ground level. Could skirt around the pits. A horse, or a group of horses, relied on speed and mass as they closed on groups of opponents. Their mass reduced their maneuverability in these close confines, and the pits negated their speed. “As close to fighting inside city confines as you’ll find in an open field,” Antony had said, describing the situation with a sour look the night before. Tight-packed city streets were also not always ideal for cavalry. “Cavalry likes wide open plains to fight in,” Antony had commented with a snort. “Give them a fresh-plowed field with no rocks or vole holes, and they’ll fight all day for you. They’ll close on a siege emplacement faster than its engineers can change firing solutions, and take it for you. But in this case? The enemy’s had all winter to get ready for us. So it’s infantry that will win the fight for us. As it usually does.”

  Caesarion checked the wind, which favored them, blowing steadily in from the bay. Neither attacking force would have to hold off, for fear of the flames running towards them. “Slingers!” he called, pitching his voice so that he could be heard, but that it wouldn’t carry past the jingle of armor, creak of leather, and thud of marching feet on the hard-packed earth. “Throw the oil!”

  Canteens of tightly woven grass, made waterproof on the interior with pitch, had been filled with olive oil. Just about the right size for a sling, the men slipped them into the cradles of the weapons now, and carefully stuffed wicks down into the mouths of the canteens, and then lit them using tapers passed from the torchbearers. And with a series of grunts, dozens of little stars streaked across the night sky, landing in the fields to their right. There was just enough of last year’s chaff still standing—left deliberately by the enemy to help disguise their preparations—that the flames caught. And then hit the olive oil leaking from the canteens, and sprang up, blossoming in the night. “Keep moving,” Caesarion called, and they resumed the march, pausing at every field to set it alight, too. Soon, clouds of acrid smoke billowed up between them and the walls of Brundisium, orange flames giving them more light to work with.

  Alarms from the city, gongs sounding, the sound of men’s voices carrying over the waters of the harbor and the roar of the gathering flames. No way to see through the choking clouds of smoke, to spot how many men with bows might be crowding the walls. To spy out how the men of the ballistae crews were responding. I wonder if Eurydice can take an owl’s eyes. She’d be able to tell me—except she’d have to be right here on my horse with me, which is a damn fool notion. Nevermind. Think about it later.

  Circling further to the south, and the rough voices of centurions calling, “Fifth! Fifth form up on me!” “Seventh, form on me, get your sorry asses moving!”

  Boiling excitement and apprehension mingled under Caesarion’s breastbone as he slid off his horse, tossing the reins to a groom at the observation position where Antony would be staying to direct the battle. Antony’s dark eyes, set in a face turned to a mummer’s mask or a funeral effigy by the orange flames and shadows, as the general asked him, “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  “They’re fighting for me. I’ll go be their living Eagle to go with all the ones that they carry atop the standards.” Caesarion did his best to sound casual, but knew that he’d failed. “Keep the cavalry in reserve,” he added. “Just in case they’re desperate enough to sally out the main gate and try to sweep around.”

  “Through their own burning fields and spike-filled trenches?” Antony snorted. “Cassius Lupinus doesn’t have the balls.”

  “We’re heading straight into their ballistae fire, through their burning fields and spiked trenches,” Caesarion pointed out, his lips quirking.

  Antony’s smile, painted by the fire, was that of a demon. “That’s because you’re your father’s son. More balls than brains, some days. Go with the gods.”

  As Caesarion strode away to join the rest of the Tenth, faithful Malleolus found his elbow and walked beside him. “You’re going to stay with me, Imperator,” the older centurion informed him.

  “Was that an order?” Caesarion asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “I thought it was good common sense. And at the center of the cohort, if your lordship would do us the honor, thank you.” A sidelong glance from the half-Gaul. “Not that we’ll keep you there long, but the lads would like to be able to keep their shields over your head at least till we’re in the t
hick of it.”

  “I’ll humor you,” the young man returned lightly. Bravado, but only a little, and mostly playful. “Na, Malleolus, I learned my lesson from the ballista stone last year. They hurt.”

  Settling into his place in line. Men to the left of him, men to the right. No perfect uniformity to the gear, but a uniformity of purpose. Feeling that purpose welling up in him as they waited for dawn to stain the eastern horizon wine-red, for the smoke to clear, for the fires to die enough that their feet wouldn’t be blistered.

  And then the moment came, and the wind drove the thinning veils of smoke far enough away that with dawn’s light, they could see the trenches that yawned open, waiting for their bodies like mouths in the earth. And behind them, the first horns blew, signaling the advance. “Frontem allargate!” Caesarion bellowed from the center of the Tenth. “Staggered formation, don’t give them any large groups to aim at, and cover that damned ground as fast as you can!”

  “Any man who falls in a hole is to be left behind until we’ve secured the engines,” Malleolus bellowed as the men shifted positions, readying for the charge. “So for fuck’s sake, don’t fall in the damned trenches.”

  The horns blew again, and then they set off, two other cohorts flanking them, aiming for the narrow strip of land between the entrenchments. Black smoke, black, smoldering earth underfoot. Heat of the dying fire blistering any foot foolish to step too long on the ground—Caesarion’s own boots felt like they might catch fire. Running straight into the mouth of Tartarus, he thought numbly.

  First a trot, and then an outright run, the men shouting to give themselves courage Caesarion could just discern the outline of the hill where the siege weapons stood, heard the first cries of pain as a munifex failed to see one of the blackened stakes jutting out of the ground, and ran into it, his broad shield fortunately catching the worst of the savagely pointed end. Grabbing the man’s arm and hauling him back to his feet, Mal at his side seizing the soldier’s other elbow and dragging him along with them—

  Clunk. Swish. Clunk. “Incoming!” Caesarion bellowed, and then the shattering thud of a ballistae bullet slamming into a man’s armored body, somewhere behind him, followed by an agonized scream. “Form up, form up on me—they’ve got their range. Form up, testudo!”

  The other three ballistae on that hill had a firing solution now, but there was still just enough smoke to render their aim uncertain. Caesarion had just enough time to glance to his far left, where half a mile away, another series of cohorts was in the midst of the same advance on a second fortified hill, barely visible through the smoke. Then men crowded in on all sides, and he, like all those at the center of the formation, raised his shield overhead, as the men at the sides raised them over their hearts. And then they weren’t a set of widely distributed targets, which had been their best option for covering ground quickly, but an armored, mobile wall. If a slow-moving one. “Forward!” Caesarion shouted, hearing the centurions of the other cohorts with them giving the same commands.

  Wrenching thuds as the ballistae stones hit the shields overhead. He was tall, so unlike many of the others, he had more of a view of where they were going than just the shoulders and helmet of the man ahead of him. Still, like everyone else, he had to trust in the good sense of the men at the front of the formation. Clunk, swish, clunk, thud. And then, added to this percussive rhythm, a humming sound, as from a busy beehive. “Archers on the walls! Steady, lads!” came the shout from the front.

  “Pick up the pace!” Caesarion called, and from a march to a trot they went, heading up the hill now. Clunk, swish, clunk, thud, followed by a strangled, wet cry of pain as a stone bullet knocked loose the shield of one of the men at the front, and the arrow that would have been caught by it lodged in his throat instead. And stepping right over his body, a second-rank man moved up to take his place, and everyone did their best not to trample a friend on their way past, as he writhed on the ground, spitting up blood. Don’t see it now, Caesarion reminded himself, his vision going gray at the periphery. You can see it again later, but don’t see it now.

  A second man fell. A third. And then the defenders around the ballistae were on them, trying the same tactics against them that they themselves used. Jabbing with spears out from behind the shield wall, or with the points of the vicious gladius swords they all carried. The front lines, bloodied by the arrowstorm from the walls, broken by the ballista stones, and exhausted by the attack in front of them and the press of men behind them, faltered. “Forward!” Caesarion roared over the din, trying to make himself heard. “Slingers, flank right!”

  He pressed ahead with them, letting the beaten front lines fall back into the center of the formation to recover. Slippery, uneven ground, loose stones underfoot here at the top of the hill. But here, in the melee, Caesarion was in his element, exhorting his men to hold the line, that every defender killed was a victory. In melee, they were marginally safer, in his opinion, than being farther back in the lines right now. The archers couldn’t aim at them, not without risking their own men. They and the ballistae crews were reduced to attacking the men at the rear, who had the opportunity to hold their shields overhead once more. And now the slingers, who’d been trailing the testudo, ran around the side of the hill, and began hurling rocks into the sides of the defenders’ formation. Every man they struck staggered. Had the chance of lowering his shield, just for an instant—and that left them open to a second bullet slung into their faces. Men crumpled. Men died.

  Stabbing from behind his own shield at eyes and faces. Even an instant of disadvantage, of hesitation, he capitalized on. Blood painted his face, hands, arms, and legs, none of it his own. Every face became a funeral mask, the visage of a ghost without a shell. And every one of them that he shattered was one less angry ghost that might come for one of his men. Just one more. And one more. And one more—

  And then, somehow, suddenly, they were through the lines, and the terrified ballistae crews grabbed their own swords for a last stand. Caesarion leaped forward, his body still primed for the fight, without the exhaustion that slowed the legs of his fellows, and slammed his shield into the face of the first engineer. The tip of his gladius ripped open the throat of the second. A pattering sensation against his upper left arm caught his attention briefly, but then he was on the rest of the men, his own cohort had caught up with him, and the defenders were mown down like so much grain.

  Staring at the bodies on the ground, breathing hard now. Dully wondering why there was so much blood, his sword trembling in his hand. The sword is trembling, not me. Damned silly thing for a sword to do. Caesarion knelt and started cleaning the blade off neatly, feeling the swirl of humanity around him as the men of the Tenth moved to take the hill entirely. Shields up to keep the archers on the walls at bay. Centurions taking charge of the ballistae, and swinging the siege engines around—”Set half of them on the walls, and start firing. Get those archers off our backs,” Caesarion called, finding his voice. “Anyone have eyes on the hill to the south? Do they need assistance?”

  “Looks like our people are bogged down at the foot of the hill,” Malleolus called back. “From what I can see through the smoke.”

  “Fire on their ballistae with our new acquisitions,” Caesarion ordered wearily.

  Clunk. Swish. Clunk. Thud. The reverberations of the siege equipment vibrated up from the ground through his feet. Like the cheers of the crowd at the Circus Maximus while he’d been conducting the funeral rites for his father. Wine on the ground then, and the sow’s blood. Human blood here, to feed the hungry earth.

  A rough hand caught him before he could move out of the center of the formation. “I saw an arrow clip you,” Malleolus told him. “Let me see.”

  Caesarion blinked, and regarded his left upper arm with interest. “I felt something, but nothing hurts.”

  “It only takes one of them getting lucky and putting it in your eye, my lord,” Malleolus hissed in his ear. “Or one of them having bought an arrow set about with
curses from some Egyptian or Persian mountebank.”

  Caesarion shook his head, feeling vastly distant from . . . everything, really. “Doubt the latter. A perfectly ordinary arrow in the eye would do the trick though. You’re absolutely right about that.” He kept his voice down, so that the men around them wouldn’t hear. “Don’t fuss so, Mal.” The older centurion had earned latitude and respect through years of solid service.

  “You broke from the line!” That, with a tone of ire.

  “Wasn’t my intention. Just a little less tired than the rest.” Caesarion managed to push away the gray clouds around his mind. “I lead from the front, Mal. I have to. It’s who and what I am.” He slapped a hand down on the other’s pauldron. “I’ll do my best not to get my ass killed.”

  “Eagle!” one of the men shouted as Caesarion stood back up, his sword clean now, and none the worse for wear.

  “Eagle! Eagle! Eagle!” the cry went up, defiance and joy at being alive and triumphant ringing in their voices. “Our Eagle!”

  Clunk. Swish. Clunk. Thud.

  “Eagle!”

  Clunk. Swish. Clunk. Thud.

  ____________________

  By dusk, the shore had become a swarm of activity, with thousands of men setting up a proper siege camp outside the range of Brundisium’s archers, while others pulled the siege engines back a bit. Losing the advantage of the hills’ height, but able to use them for cover against the damned archers on the walls. Caesarion made his rounds, watching as the walls went up rapidly, the field hospital was erected right over the heads of the various medici already practicing the terrible art of healing battle wounds. He stopped there, and helped hold down one of his own men while the physicians pulled an arrow from his calf. “No greaves?” Caesarion asked the man after the soldier finished cursing, watching sweat roll down the man’s face, whose eyes were clamped shut.