He frowned. Centurion level combat was a different matter to both high command and to individual fighting. The fluid strategy of the battlefield became his task and the lives of eighty men his responsibility. He was relatively inexperienced at such things, but his martial abilities and knowledge of the legions and their capabilities made him the equal of most recently appointed centurions at least.
He shuffled forward through the ranks, finding the place in the second row that had been left for him when Felix had vacated. Of course the centurion had been at the front, but either he or his legionaries had decided that the legate should be in the second line at best, preferably further back.
Battle was joined unexpectedly for Fronto, and he realised in a heartbeat why his men had relegated him to the second rank and what a mistake he had made.
While Petreius and Afranius’ legions had been lined up and presumably given strict orders to hold formation and wait, given the advantage of terrain, some centurion had clearly broken those commands. A small bulge of enemy legionaries broke out of their line and crashed down the hill into the centre of the Caesarian line, straight at Fronto’s century, and he cursed himself for his lack of foresight.
It was natural for any enemy of the legion to make serious attempts to cut down any man carrying a standard or wearing a centurion’s crest. The death of either crippled morale, of the former hampered their ability to effectively relay orders, and of the latter removed that level of command altogether. Every warrior facing a legion went for the standards or the centurions. But Fronto had changed the dynamic. He was still wearing his officer’s helmet in the old Attic style with a straggly plume of red and black horsehair. He was a senior officer, marked as such by his attire, and in the second line of the attack. He was just too tempting a target for the enemy, and they had broken ranks in an attempt to kill him.
And so, while across the hillside the Caesarian legions stomped upwards and the Pompeians awaited them with braced legs and gritted teeth, the centre of the enemy force poured down and crashed into the Eleventh in an unanticipated move.
Felix’s century took the force of the attack and proved their worth as the First Century of the legion, the strongest veterans to be found in the Eleventh. Despite the terrain disadvantage and the relative speeds, as the Pompeians hit the line, only three men had fallen back with the push, and they were quickly replaced by the men in the second tight line, the lightly spaced rear ranks shuffling to fill in and help the fallen men up. Fronto saw brief snatches of battle-hardened Hispanic legionaries between the two men in front of him, desperately stabbing and chopping, trying to get at the officer with the conspicuous crest. Men were already falling and dying.
The world became a commotion of ringing metal, screams, bellowed rage, oaths to a hundred gods, the chopping of shield boards, the sounds of carved meat and the crunch of chain shirts taking the blows of iron and bronze weapons. It took a count of ten for the stench to begin, rising like a miasma from the fray. The sharp, metallic tang of blood with the acrid stinging scent of fresh raw meat mixed with the odour of opened bowels and urine. The great writers of the world never mentioned such aspects to battle in their heroic sagas.
Fronto felt himself being pulled and pushed in the press, unable to do little more than hope, then suddenly a gap opened as the man in front of him disappeared to the side with a cry of agony, three swords sheathed in his torso as desperate Pompeians fought to get at the crested officer.
Fronto felt the shield of the man next to him move slightly, protecting him from several blows even as the legate struck, his sword clanging off that of the maddened enemy and tearing a few links from his chain shirt. He drew back the blade and struck again. The enemy legionary fell away, his face oddly more disappointed than agonised, and suddenly Fronto felt a man pushing past him trying to fill the gap. With a snarl, Fronto took a step forward and began to stab and slash and hack. There were flurries of blows, several coming close to ending him, but none quite striking home, and he realised only at that moment, as another man leapt to his death attempting to deflect a blade meant for the legate, that his men were seriously endangering themselves in an attempt to save their commander. He was being selfish in taking such a part as he was, and Felix had been right to disapprove. His very presence here was costing the legion.
Perhaps he had given them one advantage, though? After all, the enemy had broken ranks to push at him…
His gaze rose for a moment over the battle and he was disappointed to see that the gap formed by the disobedient Pompeian century had quickly sealed up as more and more of the enemy poured from their camp to defend the hill.
Fronto thrust twice more, catching a man in the upper arm, and ducked to avoid a dangerous blow, then allowed the man who had been trying to push past to fall into position in front. He staggered slowly back a pace, the legion flowing round him to push onwards The legate’s gaze met that of Felix, who nodded and blew new commands on his whistle. Fronto dropped back into the ranks, safely away from the front lines, the men opening up a gap for him as he went.
Wiping blood from his brow – his or someone else’s? – Fronto heaved in ragged breaths as he emerged from the rear of the advancing legion and took stock of what was happening. Any advantage they might have gained from the impulsive attack of their enemy had quickly disappeared as the gap they left had been plugged with ease. Although that century of Pompeians had been almost obliterated now, many more waited atop the hill. The rest of the fight was becoming rather mechanical as the two lines met at the crest, like a formal dance.
Both sides knew the capabilities, strengths and tactics of their enemy and, now that the initial bloodthirsty charge had ended, things had settled, the legionaries on both sides far more concerned with staying alive and keeping formation than killing men who wore the same uniform. There were deaths and there were screams still, but it was oddly muted and sporadic as both sides did what they had to with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Shuffling to the side, Fronto found a large grey rock and sank down gratefully onto it. His side ached where the wound had so recently healed, and his knuckles burned from the skinning they had taken the other day. The bandage wrapped around his hand was deep pink, but there was enough blood splashed and spattered across him that he couldn’t tell whether his hand had bled freshly into the wrappings or whether the stains were from someone else.
He closed his eyes. Oddly he could still hear the hum of bees over the din of the fight up the slope, and wondered at the resilience of nature even through man’s destruction. How long he sat there with eyes shut listening to the drone of war and the hum of nature he couldn’t say, but it was almost like being awakened from a dream when a familiar voice nearby addressed him. His eyes shot open and he straightened.
‘We almost had them,’ Salvius Cursor said again.
‘There’s a long day ahead yet,’ Fronto reminded him, noting once more with distaste the gore coating much of the tribune, whose sword was still raised as though expecting the fight to go on even here.
‘But now it is becoming a war of attrition,’ Salvius spat. ‘I was surprised to see you so visible and so far forward, sir. It was a good ploy,’ he added with a clearly grudging admission. ‘To draw them out like that. It almost worked, but their reserves plugged the gap too quickly for true advantage.’
Fronto toyed with the truth. Telling Salvius that it had been unintentional and that he had made a mistake and endangered his men would hardly help, but lying always rankled, almost as much as agreeing with the tribune. Whatever he said, the fact remained that his presence in the front lines had almost won them an advantage, but the Hispanic legions of Pompey were every bit as experienced and strong as Caesar’s and even the failures of one century would not compromise the whole. They had quickly reformed. Now the fight was very much a stalemate, the two lines cutting and shoving at the crest of the hill, but there was no likelihood of advantage, and the numbers seemed to be more or less even. Three legions or thereabouts had been
committed from the Pompeian camp.
Salvius Cursor was correct: it was now simply a war of attrition. He remained silent, contemplating the mess they were in.
‘This is what happens when the high command are too skittish to commit to a fight,’ Salvius grunted.
Fronto turned disbelieving eyes on the tribune. ‘What? This was your idea. You pushed for an attack. Those of us who knew what it would cost fought against the decision, but you won. You got your attack, and it’s turned into a systematic thinning of Roman ranks on both sides.’
Salvius looked around, perhaps checking they were alone as the legions fought on up the slope.
‘Respectfully, Legate,’ he said in a tone almost entirely devoid of respect, ‘this is not what I advocated. I spoke up for a full push against the Pompeian camp. A single decisive strike. With the division in their command we stood a chance of taking their ramparts before they could adequately respond. This was a smaller scale push to take a secondary target with the given likelihood that they would field adequate defence. It was doomed to turn into this mess.’
Fronto felt the ire rising once more and forced it down. Getting angry with Salvius would do little good now.
‘Our only hope is that someone makes a mistake,’ the tribune said.
Fronto nodded. ‘But we both know that’s not going to happen. The centurions on that hill are as good as our own. The meat grinder will go on.’
Salvius leaned against the other side of the rock and the two men fell silent, watching the fight on the hill as Romans fell to Roman blades in wave after wave of butchery. After a time, a small group of support personnel appeared, three slaves with them carrying buckets and jugs and trays. Fronto and Salvius washed off the worst of the blood from their arms and faces, tipping jugs of water over their heads. A capsarius looked at Fronto’s knuckles, applied fresh salve and rebound them, treated a small cut on the tribune’s forearm, and someone supplied a platter of bread and butter and a cup of water each.
The two men watched on as the sun rose to its zenith and then began to descend, the legions at the crest never moving, just reforming here and there so that the freshest men moved to the front, a steady stream of casualties carried or limping back from the fight, the ranks becoming noticeably thinner as time went on.
‘I need to stop this,’ Fronto said finally and was surprised when the tribune nodded and made to follow.
The two men moved swiftly back down the hill and made for the small knot of senior officers on the rise watching the fight. Caesar and his staff were arrayed around a small table that held fruit and meat and bread and jugs of wine and water as though they were watching a day’s games in the arena. Fronto coughed loudly as they approached. The general turned and nodded at him.
‘It would seem we are evenly matched,’ the general mused.
‘And gradually becoming less numerous,’ Fronto added. ‘Time to call off the attack. We’re gaining nothing here other than bodies on both sides. We’ll never take the hill, and they don’t quite have the strength to drive us back.’
‘We cannot withdraw now,’ Antonius said. ‘All it will take is one small advantage and the whole fight will change. One centurion makes one mistake, and we will control the hill.’
‘Not if that centurion is ours,’ countered Fronto. ‘Their men are every bit as good as ours.’
‘There is still time,’ Antonius persisted.
Fronto glanced at Caesar, who seemed undecided, and opened his mouth, but Salvius Cursor cut through from behind him.
‘The prize there is not worth the loss, General. Had we committed to a full attack on…’
‘Enough,’ Caesar said quietly, silencing them all. ‘This entire strategy needs to be rethought. There is no simple decisive victory to be had, whatever you advocate, Tribune, neither at their camp nor at this hill or the town. And I cannot watch the systematic attrition of legions for no appreciable gain.’ He turned to Fufius Calenus. ‘Order the Ninth to the hill in a support capacity and have the three assaulting legions withdraw using the Ninth as cover to prevent a rout. Get the men back safely to camp while we still have an army to field.’
Fronto sighed with relief and cast a quick glance at Salvius, nodding his appreciation for the unexpected support. Their motivations may be different in almost all matters, but their agreement had seemingly swung Caesar to ending the costly struggle.
* * *
‘So you’re not going to lead from the front again, then?’ Galronus mused.
‘I should have anticipated what would happen. I’d looked across the lines and spotted Salvius by his red plume. If I could find him that way, any man could find me the same. But as for taking part? I’m not sure. I have absolutely no desire to kill Romans, no matter who they call imperator, but how can I expect my legionaries to fight Romans if I’m not willing to do it myself? It’s different when you’re facing barbarians – pardon the term – because a legionary feels that what he is doing is for the good of Rome. But when the men in front of you are also Romans? Well, half the motivation melts away.’
‘But they fight for love of Caesar and the desire for the loot he promises,’ noted Galronus.
‘You’d be surprised how brief the love of Caesar flares when facing fellow Romans, and financial incentives have to be freshly remembered to carry much weight. This war is anathema to most Romans, and so they need every motivation we can give. Oddly, while I still think Salvius Cursor is a continual danger to his own army, sometimes that headstrong berserk nature of his actually works in our favour.’
‘What will Caesar do now?’
Fronto shrugged and poured himself another wine before proffering the jugs to his friend.
‘We’re at an impasse once more. He needs decisive action, but any decisive action is horribly dangerous and could easily result in defeat. Unless the gods drop a solution in his lap I just cannot see how things will change.’
Both men fell silent.
‘Did you hear that?’ Galronus said after a while.
‘What?’
Then he heard it too. A sporadic drumming on the roof of the tent.
Rain.
‘Well that settles it,’ Fronto sighed. ‘Nothing will happen while it rains anyway. Time to lick our wounds and wait.’
Chapter Ten
26th of Junius - Massilia
Catháin stood on the top of the port tower, the salty sea breeze whipping him repeatedly in the face. This tower was one of the widest and stoutest along the entire length of the city’s fortifications, yet was rarely occupied by the military. The entrance to Massilia’s great port, which occupied a natural cove or inlet, was protected by twin towers a little further along from here, the far one a singular turret disconnected from the system across the water. A chain was habitually slung between the two at water height to bar access to shipping at dangerous times, though the legions Caesar had left to besiege the city had partially demolished that far tower and therefore disabled the chain during the early days of the conflict.
The walls of the city proper, though, continued in along the cove a little way, and the last two towers overlooked only the water within the cove, and so were in no direct danger from the Caesarian legions. Consequently they were rarely occupied except by port officials. Of course they were still kept from public access, for they held artillery designed to protect the city from seaborne attackers, but with the distinct unlikelihood of sea attack, they were unmanned and stood silent and still. Catháin had managed to obtain a permit for access to the walls through his more dubious connections, though if the authorities scrutinised it too hard they might decide he had no real reason to be on the walls.
The permit had been hard to acquire, but had been important to him. If he was ever going to find a way out of Massilia, he needed to be constantly aware of the external situation, and he could only truly understand that with his own eyes and ears. He had fretted over many days, peering out and down from one tower or another in an effort to spot a way out th
at would not see him either pinned by the arrows of the besieging army before he could explain or thrown forward into a ditch, skewered by a huge bolt shot from a tower top.
Finally, he had decided that his best chance would be by water. There were a few small rowing boats still in the city, privately owned, but all had been documented and impounded by Ahenobarbus in his defensive system. All but one, at least. It had been overlooked as a wreck by the authorities, and there was little doubt that it would leak the moment it dipped into the waves, but Catháin had been in boats all his life, and he knew a vessel that would float and a vessel that would not. The small rowing boat standing in a yard three streets back from the port would eventually fill and sink, but it would take at least half an hour, which should be ample time to make it across the cove or out past the walls, and bailing out water as he went would extend that lifespan.
The only issue he had was that the waters of the inlet were observed by both Massiliots and besieging Romans. He was as likely to be killed by either side while rowing as he would sneaking across the grass. But the water had the advantage of not having to cross the walls first. It was the answer, but he had to figure a way to make it across unobserved.
Hence his concentration on this tower.
Here, beside the port, he had an excellent view of the entire inlet from the towered entrance out to open sea right to the dangerous marshes that lay inland, adding an impressive level of defensive capability to the walls at the other end. There had to be a solution, and if it was to be found it would be found here.
The morning was chilly, though that would soon change as the sun rose higher, and soon even the sea breeze would be little more than refreshing relief from the heat. Gulls wheeled and shrieked, and some minor port official with his scribe chattered away on the other side of the tower, looking down at the dock.
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