Off to the left he could see Ilerda on its rise, strong walls recently reinforced, with the gleaming figures of men atop them. The defences followed the high contours closely and made Ilerda as much a fortress as a city. A saddle separated Ilerda from the main camp, though a small hill rose like a pimple at its centre, upon which a small unit of Pompeian soldiers were dug in, overlooking the bridge.
Petreius and Afranius’ camp, a huge affair housing vast numbers of men, filled a second hill only slightly lower than the one upon which Ilerda sat. Its earth and timber defences were good and positioned well at the top of a deadly slope. Fronto was starting to doubt the wisdom of facing the enemy here. These were no tribal force who were incautious and direct. There was no chance they would trip themselves up by failing to consider the enemy. These were Roman veterans, as experienced and as skilled at war as Caesar’s army. There would be no easy victory to be had in this war.
Behind the three of them, six legions and various auxiliaries fell in, forming up as though offering battle. Which, of course, was precisely what they were doing. Almost all Caesar’s manpower was here, with one cohort from each legion left behind at the camp to secure the bridges and the supply route that was already bringing in food, drink and equipment.
‘Will they attack?’ Galronus asked.
Antonius and Fronto glanced across him at one another.
‘Perhaps,’ Fronto mused. ‘Perhaps not. They have the advantage of terrain and probably of numbers. But they know we are veterans and determined, and they know we’re fresh from the Gallic campaigns. They have to be suffering some small amount of uncertainty. And if what we hear is correct and Afranius is reluctant to commit, then Petreius might not be able to launch an attack. They share a joint command, and to commit the full Pompeian force would require the assent of both. Dual commands rarely work out well.’
‘I’m not sure whether I want them to or not anyway,’ added Antonius. ‘Just as they’re likely worried about what we can bring to a fight, neither can we underestimate them. These legions have been fighting to push the edge of Roman-controlled territory back into the northern Hispanic tribes for years, and before that they were involved in the previous civil war out here. Caesar’s legions have an impressive reputation, and rightfully so, but these legions we face might well be a match for them.’
‘Caesar will have a plan,’ Galronus said quietly.
The other two turned to him. ‘What?’
‘Caesar always has a plan.’
Antonius nodded. ‘When he is the one setting out the board he always thinks several moves ahead and can work out a winning position. But since the days of Alesia and Uxellodunum, things have been changing. Despite being the ones to cross the unthinkable river and start it all, we are now playing games on boards set by Pompey and the consuls and their lackeys, so Caesar’s planning is limited. Brundisium took us by surprise. Massilia took us by surprise. Fabius’ campaign took us by surprise. He cannot plan for surprises. This now, though, is the pivotal point. We must take control here and win. We must secure Hispania and then turn back east before everything goes wrong and we find the whole world arrayed against us. Caesar knows this and he will do whatever he can to finish this soon, but we also cannot afford to utterly waste our men, so we are rather hampered in our options.’
‘Caesar will have a plan,’ Galronus repeated, with a tone of assurance.
Fronto hoped so. He really did.
A moment later they were startled by the sounds of horns and whistles from the hillside above. The three men watched, tense, as the gate of Petreius’ camp opened. Caesar and his officers cantered over to the rise and joined them as the first legionaries spewed from the gate in good order. More were issuing from the exits at either end of the camp and filtering round to the hillside facing Caesar’s army.
‘I half expected them to stay behind their walls,’ Plancus said, joining them. Antonius nodded his agreement.
The tension built as the moments passed, Caesar’s legions settling into their formations and awaiting the enemy’s advance, the officers now gathered together watching Pompey’s army forming up. The legions of Hispania were shifting into good formation on the hillside before their ramparts, no more than a quarter or a third of the way down the slope. Finally, the last of the legions moved into position, and then the auxiliaries began to emerge, equipped with horses and spears, or with swords or slings, forming up at the flanks of the heavy infantry in an age-old strategy. It took perhaps half an hour for the last man to leave camp, and the only people still visible on the rampart were officers, observing the slope just as Caesar and his men did below.
Fronto swallowed his nerves, trying to look professional and unconcerned, though he could see the fractures of doubt cracking the many serene, commanding faces around him. There were so many of the enemy. They really did outnumber Caesar’s army, and that was without the men in Ilerda itself or on the little hill in between.
Only Galronus felt the freedom to whistle through his teeth.
Silence fell. The world waited.
On the hill above and on the gentle rise behind Fronto and his fellow officers, they could hear the billow and snap of flags in the breeze. A faint succession of jingles here and there announced men shifting position slightly in one army or the other. The sound of patient horses snorting and stamping echoed out across the land and, oddly, the noise Fronto could hear loudest, atop all the sounds of men prepared to kill and to die, was that of the endless cicadas in the long dry grass.
The two armies sat watching each other warily for some time and eventually Antonius clucked his tongue irritably and reached up, removing his scarf and scratching his hot, sweaty neck.
‘This is ridiculous. If nobody moves soon we’re going to start taking root. Somebody is bound to have some wine. Send it my way.’
Fronto, his cheeks reddening only slightly, unhooked a flask from his saddle and passed it to his fellow officer.
‘They’re not coming,’ Caesar sighed.
‘We could go to them?’ Plancus said quietly. Salvius Cursor nodded. ‘Not the best option, but the surprise we instil in them might just balance out the terrain problem.’
Caesar shook his head. ‘No. Assaulting up that hill against a superior force would result in just the sort of bloodbath I’m trying to avoid. They are not coming, and we shall not assault them.’
‘If they have no intent to attack, why come out at all?’ Fabius murmured. ‘Tactically, it makes little sense to me.’
‘It’s about confidence,’ Fronto replied, accepting his wine flask back from Antonius considerably lighter. ‘They wanted us to see how strong and numerous they are. And they wanted us – our legionaries in particular – to see that they are not afraid.’ He turned to Caesar. ‘I will tell you one thing, General. This is not going to resolve the way you hope. You’re going to be faced with a choice here. Either you accept what you’re trying to avoid and we initiate that bloodbath, which will be quick and likely decisive, but extremely costly, or you continue to avoid pressing battle, but that will drag out more and more and it may be months before you can tie up anything here. Petreius and Afranius are not going to hand victory to you. You will either have to tear it from them or wear them down. One way is short but very costly, the other: uncertain, but even if you win, it will take a long time.’
He caught Salvius looking at him and couldn’t quite make out what the man was thinking from his expression.
‘I shall not push up the hill,’ Caesar reiterated. ‘This place has all the characteristics of a small Gergovia and the gods love to toy with patterns. I will not tempt them to repeat upon me that disaster. Something will occur. The information drawn from a few scouts we’ve captured lurking around by the bridges suggests that Afranius and Petreius argue with one another constantly. Sooner or later one of them will make a mistake and we must be ready. In the meantime, let us prepare our forces. The afternoon wears on and there will be no fighting today. We shall fortify our positi
on on the low rise facing them. Have the orders disseminated among the officers.’
Antonius nodded and gestured to several of the men on the hill, beckoning for them to follow him back to the legions.
Caesar turned to look at Fronto. ‘That was a succinct appraisal. The answer as to which choice I would select, though, is a given. While I would like nothing more than to secure Hispania in a single week and then march back to find Massilia taken and content and Italia settled, I will not waste lives whether they be those of my men or those of our opposition. They are, after all, still loyal Roman soldiers, even if Pompey is their commander. If the need is there, I will proceed slowly and carefully and gradually bring them down. Trebonius will just have to deal with Massilia and we will have to hope that Varro does not feel safe moving beyond his borders in Hispania Ulterior.’
Fronto nodded. While it was far from ideal he could hardly do anything but approve of the general’s decision.
‘It is time, I think, to assign you a command. The Eleventh is currently under the control of Quintus Fufius Calenus, but the man is a much better logistical officer than he is a legate. I fear his talents are underused and I could very much use his advice in other areas. Fronto, I’m giving you the Eleventh for this campaign and removing Fufius to my staff.’ He turned to Galronus. ‘And you? Well you are now one of the equites and a senator to boot. As such we can’t have you all trousered and whooping and the like with the auxilia. Antonius is my overall cavalry commander, but I have need of him for now, so you shall take the rank of Praefectus equitus, my Remi friend, and command the army’s cavalry for me.’
Galronus blinked in surprise.
‘Don’t look too grateful,’ Fronto grinned. ‘That might yet prove to be something of a barbed honour!’
* * *
The officers’ briefing that evening was an uncomfortable affair. They were not residing in a fortified camp and, though the enemy had returned to their own fortress at sunset, the knowledge that a larger force who felt no fear of them hovered at the top of the hill opposite, and could sweep down with little notice, set every man’s teeth on edge.
The soldiers of the six legions had been set to work digging in, but the sun sank earlier here at the edge of the Pyrenaei foothills, and the ground was extremely hard and rocky, so even with a strong compliment of men they had managed only a single deep and wide ditch by dusk, cutting across the land before Ilerda, separating Caesar’s army from that of Pompey’s dogs. The knowledge that only one side of the camp site was adequately secured made sleep and rest nervous, and the number of pickets and watchmen had been tripled for this night.
And while the soldiers lay twitching in their drab tents in ordered lines all across the low rise, the officers had gathered in the rather hollow empty command tent, which as yet lacked anything in the way of décor and even much in the way of furniture.
The officers were slowly polarising. Fronto had seen it before when two paths lay open before an army. Two groups of opinion would begin to form and their possessors would tend to cluster together with the few undecided sometimes standing with one and sometimes the other. The group that generally advocated a quick and violent solution outnumbered the patient crowd by roughly two to one in Fronto’s estimation. At the fore of their opinionated group stood a surprising trio Fronto could not have seen working well together at any other time. Salvius Cursor was no surprise, of course. That man could be relied upon to select the bloodiest route through any problem. Marcus Antonius was more of a surprise. Usually the man to stand at Caesar’s right hand and argue in favour of any choice the man made, Antonius had apparently now begun to favour action. And Fabius, who had been so cautious prior to their arrival, had moved to a position of decisive action too. Of course, Antonius was known to be headstrong, and might just be following the pulsing of his blood, and Fabius had explained that though he had been reluctant to offer battle previously that had been due purely to the supply situation, and that now Caesar had solved that issue, Fabius would like to tan some Pompeian hide.
At the other side of the room stood the advocates of slow erosion, including Plancus and Fronto, Galronus and Varus, who had arrived in camp at sunset, having overseen the escorts for the supply train put in place, and who now found himself commanding the regular horse under Galronus. To his credit, given that Varus had been a senior commander since the first year of the war, the man greeted Galronus warmly and seemed to have accepted the situation without question. Fronto wondered how balanced these two groups would have been had Trebonius and Brutus been here. Or even Labienus.
Salvius Cursor was glaring in their direction once more and Fronto, with a devilish glint in his eye, winked at the man and raised his cup in salute. No words had passed between Salvius and them, but none had been needed to make clear how the man felt. Galronus, who Salvius did not trust and thought to be little more than a well-shaved barbarian in Roman costume, had been granted one of the most senior and crucial roles in the army. And Fronto, who he so clearly hated utterly, had been made legate of one of the six legions once more.
Fronto had been torn, upon hearing the details of his assignment, between laughing to the very verge of insanity or weeping at what the gods – and more specifically Caesar – had dropped in his lap. With the Thirteenth Legion now resident in Italy watching for Pompey’s first move, a certain tribune had been left without a unit. Having reached the end of his patience with Salvius Cursor’s repeated opinions in staff meetings, the general had assigned him as the senior tribune of the Eleventh. Fronto’s deputy. Such an appointment could only have been the general’s deliberate choice, and Fronto couldn’t decide whether it was done to punish him or Salvius. Either way, it would result in both.
The other five tribunes of the Eleventh were the usual lot of noble children from Rome who would likely cut themselves to pieces if they ever had cause to draw their swords and who kept having to ask who people were. At least he could rely upon the centurionate. The primus pilus, Titus Mettius, who people called Felix due to his repeated bouts of bad luck, had been in charge of the Eleventh throughout their time, and Fronto had seen the man fight through most of the great battles in Gaul. Pullo and Vorenus, also, he had seen in the Gallic campaign, and both had reputations as solid centurions.
But Salvius Cursor, of all people...
The tribune was even now throwing a look at Fronto that could have melted through an officer’s cuirass – wholly inappropriate for a Roman officer looking at his commander. Still, Fronto would let him have his attitude. It was easier to let him seethe than to fight it. As long as the man did what he was told, Fronto would manage.
‘So that, in a nutshell, is our situation, gentlemen,’ Caesar concluded. ‘Thoughts?’
‘Do we put in siege works?’ Plancus asked. ‘This area is sparsely forested. If we are thinking of building rams and vinea and the like we should start gathering and construction pretty much immediately, as it might be a long job.’
Caesar shook his head. ‘There is little opportunity to use such equipment against such a lofty target. To make them viable we would have to build a long ramp, and that just creates numerous other problems. Our greatest hope for a clean victory here is to drive the enemy to panic. We must never once appear to be struggling – always controlled and confident. We must gradually move to reduce their supremacy in any area. To that end I want each of you to think of ways to gradually tip the balance toward us so that we can undermine the enemy’s confidence and perhaps, with luck and the favour of the gods, turn the soldiery against their commanders. We have seen it happen already in Italia more than once. Yes these are more experienced veteran legions, but every man has his breaking point.’
‘One short assault would break them, General.’
Fronto turned a disbelieving look on Salvius. The man was still pushing the agenda despite Caesar having refused such a plan. Caesar opened his mouth to reply, but Antonius interrupted. ‘Hear his idea, General.’
Caesar’s face d
arkened and his expression remained stony, but he nodded in the face of such a request from his old friend.
‘We know they are divided in command,’ Salvius said, spreading his arms and appealing to all in the room. ‘We know that they are not happy committing to an act of civil war, the same as all sane men.’
That rules you out, Fronto thought nastily.
‘The simple truth,’ the tribune went on, ‘is that no one here wants to be the man to draw first blood against other Romans and that reluctance puts an army on the back foot. We can capitalise on both the division in command and the reluctance of the soldiers if we launch one full-scale, sudden, unexpected attack. And to make it the most brutal possible, we could send a legion or two around over our new crossings to advance across the enemy’s stone bridge. I know you denied an attack from those quarters, but that was given the theory that the enemy would be able to concentrate on defending that quarter,. If they are suffering attack from all sides at once, they will not be able to protect the bridge as vehemently. I do believe, and so do a number of my peers…’
Peers? You arrogant little prick!
‘… that such a sudden action from several sides would break the morale of the defenders and force a surrender.’
‘And if it doesn’t,’ Fronto said suddenly, turning on him, ‘then you have divided our forces and committed a smaller army against a larger up a steep slope and against solid ramparts. I’m a betting man myself, Salvius, but I wouldn’t be willing to risk a whole army on it.’
Caesar was nodding. Salvius and Antonius shared a look, aware that their argument was losing momentum, and that Fronto’s comment had stolen it all.
FIELDS OF MARS Page 20
