FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  Even as they climbed, a beacon was lit, sending a message to the Pompeian garrisons on the far side of the hills. That mattered little. In fact, the news might just be an advantage. At the last gathering of intelligence, the legions of Hispania Citerior were based around Calagurris to the west, where the ongoing pressure was applied to advance Roman territory to the north coast. Even the concentration of Caesar’s legions at Narbo had not drawn them east. Now, they likely would come, but by the time they were in a position to endanger the Tenth and their sister legions, Caesar’s army would be in Hispania and well-fortified in the eastern strongholds. The enemy would be too late and all that signal would do was tell the garrisons ahead that even the high pass couldn’t stop Caesar’s men.

  Gritting his teeth, Atenos put aside all thoughts now other than their immediate goal.

  ‘Second Cohort,’ he bellowed, ‘to the left. Third Cohort to the right. First Cohort with me.’

  And he began to pick up the pace. They were only two hundred feet or so from the walls, now. Clearly the garrison were legionaries and not some sort of native auxilia, as neither arrows nor sling shots came from the walls, but as they staggered up the increasingly steep slope, Atenos distinctly heard a call for pila within the walls.

  ‘Shields up!’ he shouted as they struggled on, and the men of his cohort raised their boards, staggering up the slope with sword in hand and shield high.

  The pila came in a single volley and their effect was horrifying. The missiles punched through shields and arms alike and men shrieked and fell, while others cast aside their useless defences and stomped on shieldless. Atenos’ worst fear was realised when he heard another call for pila. In battle, each legionary might be expected to have two pila, but in the defence of a fort their only limit was however many were stacked in the storerooms.

  ‘Run!’ he bellowed, and the men charged as fast as they could up toward the walls even as the second volley of pila launched out from the parapet and fell among the men, ruining shields and puncturing flesh. The walls were the height of two men. Not high by Roman standards, but enough given the steeply-sloping terrain to all sides.

  ‘Up, lads. Up and over.’

  The first men to reach the wall advanced into two different manners. Some grasped the gaps between stones where the mortar had weathered and cracked in the high mountain winds and began to climb, assisted by the very slight slope of the defences. Others leaned against the wall and bent so that men could climb onto their backs and shoulders, the pain of their mates’ hobnailed boots dulled by the thick double shoulder layer of their chain shirts.

  They hit the walls like a tide of men, wave after wave smashing against the stone, clambering up the façade or climbing onto their mates’ shoulders to gain an initial boost. Something smacked into Atenos’s shoulder from above and as his head snapped around he was rather surprised to see a bloody gladius bounce off his mail shirt, a severed hand still gripping the hilt. Snarling, he pushed a man upwards where the legionary was struggling to rise from his mate’s back. The man managed to get purchase higher up on the walls and pulled, the man on whose back he had been standing heaving in a breath of relief only momentarily before Atenos was suddenly clambering up onto him, blade in hand, silently climbing.

  The centurion, veteran of a dozen wars fighting both for and against Romans, waited irritably as the man he’d had to push upwards finally pulled himself further and made room for Atenos. He looked up as the man disappeared over the parapet, yelling and slashing out, only to reappear a moment later, gurgling and clutching at his throat as he fell to the rocky ground, dying.

  The face of the man’s killer appeared over the parapet, making sure his victim was gone and, his own height added to that of the man on whose shoulders he stood, Atenos stabbed upwards, driving the slender tip of his gladius into the man’s eye. Unspeakable fluids spattered across the centurion’s face as the defender shrieked briefly until Atenos pushed extra strength into his arm and shoved upwards, driving the blade into the brain. He had a little difficulty ripping the blade free, and the man’s twitching body came with it, falling from the parapet and almost carrying Atenos down to the rocky slope with it.

  Allowing himself no time to recover, the veteran centurion clambered up the wall, his fingers gripping the flat stone of the parapet, hurrying to fill the gap made by the fallen defender before it was plugged by one of his mates.

  He pulled himself up onto the defences just as another Pompeian legionary hurried forward, brandishing a pilum, ready to jab down into the attackers. The man realised he was in danger of losing his intended place at the defences and stabbed out with the pilum at the figure clambering over the wall, but Atenos was fast and strong. His free hand lashed out and grasped the pilum below the iron head. The man tried for a moment to yank the weapon from the centurion’s hand, but as he failed, Atenos pulled in response. The legionary, jerked forward, lost his footing and stumbled. Atenos dropped from the wall into a crouch as the defender hit him and tipped over the top. Even as the man fell forward with panicked momentum, Atenos grabbed the man’s flailing leg and lifted, helping him on his way as he fell over the parapet and disappeared with a scream. Two more men were coming for him now, but Atenos took a moment to glance this way and that and take stock.

  It seemed he had overestimated the defenders’ numbers slightly. He would guess at somewhere between two and three hundred men were rushing to hold the walls. Here and there a legionary from the Tenth was already inside, just like Atenos, fighting to maintain his hold. The centurion marked the one who had pushed furthest by sight. He must have been the first over the wall, and if he lived it would be him who received the decoration from Carbo afterwards. His roving gaze caught sight of Celsus, senior centurion of the Second Cohort, who had just clambered over the parapet on the western side and was busy pulling his blade from a victim. Celsus’ own gaze suddenly met Atenos’ and the man grinned and started to push forward, bellowing and slashing and stabbing with his gladius.

  ‘Oh no you bloody don’t,’ Atenos snapped and launched at the two men coming for him even as another legionary from the Tenth climbed over the wall behind. Celsus was making for the headquarters building close to the watchtower, beside which stood a vexillum flag. Atenos was damned if he was going to let Celsus be the man to take the enemy commander.

  The veteran centurion hit the two reserve defenders in a shoulder barge, sending one flying from his feet to roll away across the grass. The other staggered and attempted to stick his blade into Atenos, and the centurion parried the blow with an arm-deadening clang.

  Pausing only long enough to smash the man in the face with his sword’s pommel, Atenos ran on toward that crimson flag with the eagle and lightning motif. Even as he and Celsus raced for the goal, three figures emerged from the doorway of the headquarters. One centurion, accompanied by a legionary, nodded their understanding of something to a man dressed as a tribune and made to move to the defences, then spotted the two centurions closing on them.

  Atenos tried not to succumb to irritation as the legionary ran for Celsus, brandishing his blade, while the Pompeian centurion – a man who by very definition would be a tougher customer – came at Atenos.

  The centurion leapt at him, slashing out at neck height and, even as Atenos parried, the man was already dropping low to take him in the inner thigh. Atenos stepped back out of reach of the blow and struck down only to have his blade turned by that of his opponent as he rose once more.

  ‘Sorry, brother,’ the Pompeian centurion said loudly, and there appeared to be genuine regret in his eyes as his sword slipped from hand to hand and then came in suddenly and unexpectedly from the left. Atenos ducked to the side and almost fell in the desperate need to move out of the way of the blow that missed his armpit by a hair’s breadth. It had been an unexpected and very swift killing blow, and Atenos had survived it more by luck than by judgement.

  He lashed out with his foot as he struggled to rise to his full height again, t
he studs of his boot hitting the man on the knee. The metal nails clacked into the man’s protective greave but Lady Fortuna clearly favoured Caesar’s men that day for, instead of sliding off the metal armour left or right as would most likely happen, instead his boot slid upwards.

  The strain his rising leg caused his crotch was eye-watering as the other centurion came on with momentum, the advance forcing Atenos’ leg higher and higher into the splits. But for every bit of groin strain the Tenth’s chief centurion suffered, Pompey’s man had it worse. The sharp nails in the sole of Atenos’ boot slipped from the metal greave and slammed into the muscular flesh, drawing blood. And with his forward momentum, Atenos’ nailed boot raked upwards, shredding the flesh on its route to the hip.

  The centurion cried out in pain and fell, even as Atenos collapsed into a heap. The Pompeian rolled onto his back and Atenos could see the mess his boot had made of the man’s thigh, deep furrows gouged in the skin, and blood everywhere. However, he felt a little too preoccupied to feel too sorry for the man, as his own groin was on fire, pulled asunder like never before.

  Through a veil of tears, Atenos watched his opponent struggling to rise with the agony in his leg. The man had no helmet and, trying to ignore the pain in his loins, Atenos lunged forward and brought his sword down on the man’s head, using the flat of the blade. There was a bony clonk and the centurion collapsed once more, his eyes rolling up into his skull.

  ‘Sorry, brother,’ he said quietly, and then spent some of the most painful moments of his life rising to his feet. As he took a tentative step forward and yelped, a legionary from the Tenth, matted with blood, was suddenly next to him.

  ‘You alright, sir?’

  ‘I’ve been better, soldier, but I’ll live.’

  He almost argued as the soldier took his shoulder and helped him toward the headquarters, but the pain was so intense he relented and let the man aid him. Looking this way and that he could see it was over. Around the walls the remaining Pompeians – probably still half the garrison – were standing with their arms raised in surrender. Irritation consumed him as Celsus emerged from the headquarters with the tribune at sword point, demanding any remaining defenders lay down their arms. The centurion grinned at Atenos.

  ‘Getting slow in your old age, sir?’

  ‘Piss off, Celsus.’ But he winced as he made a rather unkind gesture with his free hand and almost fell again.

  ‘Permission to be the first to piss on Pompey’s trophy, sir?’ Celsus grinned.

  ‘Granted. I might not be pissing for a few weeks, so you might have to do it for me too.’

  * * *

  Atenos shuffled in his seat and hissed and winced with the movement. It had been three days since the storming of the pass, and so far the pain in his groin showed no sign of abating. The medicus had snorted at his concern and told him to ‘grow a pair’, which seemed rather heartless in the circumstances. Apparently the strain would heal in a week or two and he would return to normal in due course.

  The legion had spent one night at the fort, burying the dead of both sides with respect, and had allowed the surrendered garrison to leave, heading south and west deeper into Hispania. The men had lived up to their promise, and Pompey’s great trophy was no longer pure white when they left, the entire valley tainted with the smell of ammonia whenever the wind dropped.

  They had left a hundred men to hold the heights just in case, and had then moved on. Arriving at Gerunda this morning, they had found the Ninth freshly arrived and slightly battered from their own ordeals along the coast, Later in the day as the two legions had exchanged war stories and shared food and drink, the Sixth had finally arrived with the rather haggard-looking Fabius at their head. It seemed that Emporiae had been more strongly contested than either of the other points, and the Sixth had truly struggled to secure their access.

  Still, they were here now, and the senior officers and higher centurions rose from their seats in the basilica hall they had commandeered in Gerunda as the senior legate and lieutenant of Caesar entered.

  ‘Sit down gentlemen,’ Fabius said wearily, then frowned at Atenos as he grasped the wall and gently lowered himself into the seat. ‘Haemorrhoids, Centurion?’

  ‘Pompeians, sir. A proper pain in the goolies.’

  The officers around them laughed, and Fabius grinned in response. ‘Well, we can all be proud of ourselves, I’d say. Only a week after Caesar’s message arrived, and we’ve managed to secure all the major access points to Hispania.’ His face became serious again. ‘However, we do not have time to rest on our laurels. Word from the locals is that the legions of Hispania Citerior left Calagurris days ago and turned east. Five whole legions to our three. And if they manage to dig in, they could cause us no end of trouble. And worst of all, if the governor of Hispania Ulterior, who is also Pompey’s man, decides to come join them, we will be facing seven. So I intend to march forth and meet the five Citerior legions before they can be bolstered.’

  ‘Sir, is that wise?’ Carbo asked quietly. ‘Three against five? And these are not green men, but veterans like us. Will Caesar approve of such a forward strategy?’

  Fabius flashed an irritated glance at Carbo. ‘We have no choice unless we want to see all seven Hispanic legions consolidated against us. I will answer to Caesar when the time comes. But to reassure you that I am not leading some insane push against an army twice our size, couriers bear good tidings. Caesar has sent the Seventh, Eleventh and Fourteenth legions south to join us. They are mere days away, already close to Narbo. We will await their arrival, and then push on to meet the Pompeian forces, which will give us a nominal six legions to their five. The campaign carries a certain level of inherent danger, but I cannot risk Governor Varro marching from Gades with his two legions and joining them. So rest your men for a few days, gather what supplies you need, and heal the wounded. As soon as our sister legions arrive, we march west.’

  Atenos and Carbo shared a look.

  West. Into Pompey’s heartland.

  Chapter Five

  4th of Maius - Massilia

  Caesar stood on the observation point of the camp and watched the activity around him. Late the previous night, finally, the Seventeenth, Eighteenth and Nineteenth legions had arrived and settled into the camps inexpertly constructed in advance by the cavalry. The senior officers had been ridiculously apologetic, mortified that their tardiness had cost Caesar an easy victory at Massilia, but the general had been magnanimous. No man can move faster than his army’s slowest component, he had assured them, and they might have set off even earlier and not bothered stopping to resupply in Latium and so on, but no one could have predicted that Ahenobarbus was going to take a force to hold Massilia against them.

  Fronto had caught Salvius Cursor’s expression at that and had to admit that the tribune might well have predicted just that had they all listened to him. And yet to his credit, Salvius was not reminding anyone that he had been adamant Ahenobarbus not be freed. Instead, he was already turning his attention to how to root out the man.

  Siege was now inevitable. With the bitter and talented Ahenobarbus present to defend the place, the Massiliots were hardly likely to surrender their city to Caesar, and certainly Pompey’s attack dog was not going to capitulate.

  And so since dawn half the men of all three legions had been at work gathering resources. Already the first few hundred paces of the hillside had been denuded of trees, and stacks of trunks and branches were being created in the huge fortified area facing Massilia across the wide dip. Other men were already at work adzing timber and making planks. Wheels were being created from wood and bound with iron rims. A ram head was being cast by knowledgeable legionary blacksmiths. The land surrounding Massilia was alive with work.

  Marcus Vitruvius Mamurra, Caesar’s favoured siege genius, who had worked miracles during their time in Gaul, had joined them from Rome and, though his girth seemed to have expanded somewhat, he still wore an officer’s uniform, sweating in the morning sun
as he pored over charts and plans, lists and notes. He had brought a capsa – a leather case – of ideas and theories with him.

  ‘How will you give me Massilia?’ Caesar said, his gaze straying across the works.

  Mamurra hummed indecisively for a moment.

  ‘It is a difficult proposition at best, Caesar. Given the strength of the walls, the lack of land access and the dip in the terrain between there and here, normally I would advocate the building of huge catapults and the bombarding of the city with great rocks and burning pitch.’

  Caesar arched an eyebrow, and Mamurra shrugged. ‘But you have made it abundantly clear that the city itself is to suffer as little damage as possible.’

  ‘They may currently oppose me,’ Caesar reminded him, ‘but they still remain allied to the Roman state in one form or another. They are garrisoned with legionaries, and when this mess is cleared up, Massilia will be required to go forward into the future as a strong, loyal ally, or possibly even part of the province, owing allegiance to the republic. Either way, as ash and corpses all it would represent is good propaganda for Pompey, and I will not have that.’

  ‘Besides,’ Fronto added, ‘I have a huge warehouse of wine in there.’

  He winced at the look Caesar favoured him with.

  ‘Well whatever we decide to do, and I have a number of ideas to ponder,’ Mamurra filled the silence, ‘we will need level access to Massilia. The dip makes things tremendously difficult. Anything we build on wheels is going to be troublesome descending this side and a sheer nightmare to climb the far side with.’

  Fronto nodded. He’d never truly noticed the dip between his villa’s position and the city walls before. Probably because even the dip was high above the sea. But now that he contemplated it, it would cause trouble in any siege.