‘If we’re lucky,’ Fronto muttered, feeling about as lucky as a drowning man being handed a bucket of water, ‘only one bridge will have gone, and the other will be stable.’
‘Not likely,’ put in Mamurra, Caesar’s chief siege engineer, sloshing through the ankle deep murk and wrapped in a cloak on his way to join them.
‘You have further information?’ Caesar pressed, leaning forward.
‘I’ve been observing the wreckage in the water. There are two very distinct varieties of timber floating down. One is older, of dark oak, and the other of beech, light and already showing signs of rot. Since the two types of wood are drawn from different sources almost a mile apart in the area of the bridges, the chances of both timbers being used in one bridge are minimal. I am certain we are seeing the wreckage of two separate bridges at the same time.’
‘Damn it. That leaves us deep in the mire,’ Caesar murmured. ‘If the only crossing is once again the stone one under Petreius’ nose, then our supply line is effectively cut until we can construct a new bridge. And we are expecting a particularly large delivery that has been held up by the weather. The longer the train of supplies languishes out there across the river, the more chance there is of the food rotting or the local bandits finding some way to gain control of it. Plus there should be a unit or more of support coming from Gaul, who might well be floundering around out there unable to cross.’
‘We’d best go and look at it, then,’ Fronto suggested. ‘Survey the damage.’
The small party waited for the last of the legates to join them, and then rode out through the east gate of the camp, between the water-filled ditches and then, some distance out, past a pair of Roman pickets sitting under a tree, bedraggled and rubbing their hands together for warmth.
Once they passed outside the protective cordon of the camp’s outriders and pickets, Ingenuus and his cavalry escort moved out into a ring, protecting the general and his officers. The land here, once the mounds of Ilerda had been left behind, was resoundingly flat and open, studded with small copses of trees, traditionally the perfect land for riding, but more than a week of rain had left the whole place very boggy and spotted with mires and small impromptu lakes that made navigation for the riders problematic. Though they tried for follow the usual route from the camp up to the former position of Fabius’ legions and the bridge there, they repeatedly had to backtrack and work around a small swamp, unwilling to test how treacherous it might be in the circumstances.
Going was slow and it took half an hour to reach the first bridge, two miles upstream. The sight was enough to destroy any good humour remaining among them. The bridge had gone in its entirety. All that remained to be seen were two pieces of smashed timber jutting from the earth on the far bank and three piles driven into the river, one of which was leaning at a forty-five degree angle.
‘That, I presume,’ Fronto grunted, ‘is not a repairable bridge.’
Mamurra rolled his eyes. ‘Three days to put it back. Three days under good, dry, helpful conditions, that is. Any less than that and it would be even flimsier than this one. If we have to do it in this weather, more like a week.’
Caesar exhaled loudly. ‘The gods send us what they will, and on this occasion they send me disaster. Let us move on to the upper bridge and see if it can be salvaged.’
Once more, the small party, now even more sullen and travelling in unhappy silence, rode the two miles to the upper bridge in a further half hour, backtracking here and there en route. Finally, they moved toward the river once more, and the site of the second bridge. The mood deteriorated even further as the officers’ eyes fell upon the half dozen torn timbers jutting from dirt and water. The only surviving section was a short platform perhaps six feet long that protruded from the near bank at a slight angle.
Harrumphing his displeasure, Caesar dropped from his horse and crossed to the timbers. Gingerly, he pressed the toe of his boot on the timber. It did not move. Mamurra, also dismounting, scratched his chin. ‘Some of the piles are still in place and if this end is still well anchored, we might be able to build on existing structures.’
Caesar nodded and made to step forward but a hoarse, crackly voice with a thick Hispanic accent said ‘I wouldn’t do that, Chief.’
Caesar and the other officers turned in surprise, and Ingenuus and his cavalry, discomfited at having missed a potential danger even in the troublesome night of rain, hurried over, drawing their swords. Fronto peered at the slope near the river.
A leathery-looking native was sitting next two three goats, two of which looked bedraggled and miserable, the third still and seemingly lifeless, its appearance suggesting the man had dragged it from the waters. The cavalrymen relaxed a little, their swords still in hand, but less prepared for a quick kill.
‘Dangerous?’ Caesar asked the farmer.
‘Orrible, Chief. Sima here fell off it into the water. It rocks when you gets out a few feet.’
‘You have my thanks,’ Caesar replied, gesturing to the man. ‘You have likely saved me an impromptu bath.’
‘Saved your arse more like,’ grinned the man. Ingenuus made to step forward and curb the man’s insolence, but Caesar simply chuckled and waved the bodyguards back. ‘Indeed, my friend. Did you see the bridge go, perchance?’
‘Like a spider being hit with a hammer, it were,’ the farmer said. ‘Messy. Bits everywhere.’
‘You are just the most charming conversationalist, aren’t you,’ laughed Antonius.
‘Says it as I sees it, Chief,’ the man shrugged. ‘Seen a few crossings go in my time. Specially in the arse end of winter when the snows melt and the rivers run high. This was one of the best though. You Romans like to build things big. Just means they’re more impressive when they come down.’
Again, Caesar smiled. Fronto did too. It was hard not to be oddly charmed by this man.
‘Your goat has died?’
‘Aye. Poor girl.’
‘You will miss her?’
‘Only ‘til tomorrow. Then she goes in the pot. Three days good eatin’ for the whole family. Not enough for a legion, mind,’ he added, meaningfully, looking around at the assembled horsemen.
Again, Caesar laughed. ‘Be at ease. We will not impose upon your meal. Aulus, give this man something for his troubles.’
Ingenuus reached into the bag that hung from the saddle and produced a small purse of coins, which he threw down to the man. The farmer caught it and looked inside. His eyes rose again, suspiciously. ‘I ain’t for sale in that kind of way, if that’s what you’re thinkin’?’
Another chuckle. The purse was probably more coins than the man had ever held. ‘Call it a gift for your aid, and compensation for the goat. It was, after all, our bridge from which she fell.’
‘Aye, well, you’re right there, Chief,’ the man replied, tucking away the purse before anyone might think to take it back.
‘How long to replace this one, then?’ Fronto asked Mamurra.
‘Same, I reckon. Three days in the dry. A week in this nightmare.’
‘Things are looking less than bright, aren’t they?’ Fronto murmured.
‘Another day,’ the farmer said in a firm tone.
‘What?’
‘One more day o’ rain. That’s all. By sundown tomorrow the ground’ll start to dry. Two more days even the pools’ll have gone.’
‘You’re sure?’ Caesar probed.
‘Sure as shit, Chief. I seen many a flood. All the signs are there. One more day.’
‘You have truly earned your money,’ Caesar smiled, then turned to the other officers. ‘Alright. The legions sit tight for one more day. As soon as the rain clears and the river starts to drop again, two legions are to replace the lower, closer bridge. That means four days and we should have working supply lines again. But I am still concerned about the supply wagons that are overdue, and our Gallic allies. Galronus? I want you to take a small cavalry force and look for them. It would take the infantry or wagons forever to move
far enough upstream to find another crossing, but you can take spare mounts for each man and move swiftly. Head up to the first ford or bridge you find and cross the river. Locate my supplies and direct them to the lower bridge.’
Galronus bowed his head.
‘Anyone want to buy a goat?’ asked the farmer hopefully.
* * *
Galronus and his men reined in their mounts in the shade at the edge of a copse of birch and elm. It had been a gruelling two days for the cavalry. Dispatched by Caesar as soon as the bridges had been surveyed, Galronus had ridden back to the camp and gathered a full ala of horsemen, mostly Gallic or Belgic auxiliaries, but with a few small units of regulars among them – each type of horseman had their own unique methods, after all. They had set off to the northeast in the driving rain, leading a spare horse each – most of the cavalry’s excess mounts, in fact. The drenched men and horses had ridden at a good, mile-eating pace for the rest of that day and the morning of the next before finding the first crossing of the Sicoris, a ford constructed by the local tribes in ages past.
They had then turned back south and raced on, changing horses periodically to give them adequate rest and pausing for breaks as often as Galronus felt safe. Fortunately, that afternoon, just as the goat-herder had predicted, the rain cleared and the sun returned to Hispania, burning the moisture from the land in thick banks of mist. The riders had spent the night under makeshift shelters, gradually drying out, and this morning they were comfortable for the first time in days, though many had caught chills and coughs from the conditions of their journey. A constant chorus of snorts and choking noises accompanied the cluster of three hundred riders.
Finally, here amid the steaming land and the verdant trees, Galronus rested. He had called a two hour break for a mid-day meal, the longest rest they’d had during the day since they’d set out from the camp. The horses were tethered with long leads amid some of the richest grass they had seen, green turf given strong life by the combination of gleaming Hispanic sun and days of heavy rain. The men collapsed onto logs, rocks and turf and unwrapped their bucellatum hardtack biscuits and the meagre remains of bread and cured meat they had brought with them. There would be enough left in the packs for two more days. What would happen then no one could predict. Galronus grumbled to himself that he’d not halved the rations yesterday, but he’d believed there would be enough to see them back across the river if they stretched it. And there would. If they turned back soon. But it all depended upon how long they needed to be out here. He didn’t like to think of the consequences of failure and returning to Caesar empty handed.
He chewed the pork, wincing at the saltiness, and washed it down with a flask of extremely watered wine, barely registering a taste it was so weak. Some preternatural sense made him look up just as one of the exploratores scouts emerged over the crest of the hill a quarter of a mile away, moving at a fast pace. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck, and without needing to hear whatever the man had to say, he rose and swallowed his mouthful.
‘Arm up. To horse.’
Around him there was a moment of blinking surprise, and then every man discarded his bread and biscuit carelessly, grabbing swords and helmets and running to their horses.
‘Leave the spare mounts tethered. Looks like trouble.’
Men were hauling themselves into their saddles and unslinging shields from where they had been tied for travel. Galronus pulled himself up onto Eonna and settled himself between the horns of the saddle. Everywhere was the grunting and coughing of men, the shush of chain shirts, the snorting and whickering of horses and the clonk of spear shafts and shields. The rider was getting closer now and if Galronus had needed any confirmation that he had been correct in his anticipation it was the speed and desperation of the man’s ride.
‘Form turmae!’
As the riders moved into their units ready for action, rather than staying as a loose travelling formation, Galronus trotted his mount out a few dozen paces toward the approaching rider. Two more of the exploratores were closing, too.
As the man reached the cavalry, he reined in urgently and gestured over his shoulder.
‘What is it?’ Galronus demanded in the native Gallic tongue, his accent these days an odd combination of Belgic and Latin.
The man heaved in a deep breath.
‘Supply convoy. Aedui and Ruteni, I think. Under attack.’
‘How many?’
The man’s face hardened and Galronus felt a twinge of worry at the expression. ‘Maybe two and a half thousand warriors – archers and horse. As many civilians again as that. Half a hundred wagons, too. They’ve pulled back to a hill.’
‘But how many attackers?’
‘Many. A flood of cavalry, mostly Hispanic. And legionaries too. I saw the standards of two different legions, but there were so many men it must be at least three.’
Galronus whistled through his teeth. Possibly twenty thousand Pompeians, and only three thousand warriors to fight them off even if Galronus joined in. A horrible moment of decision fell upon him. He had served both the Remi and Rome as a leader of men over the past decade, but never had he experienced a level of command with such momentous choices weighing upon him.
To rush and help the beleaguered convoy would be to court disaster and might mean the end of them all. Certainly the odds were horrifying. But to leave and return with news for Caesar would be to condemn those Gauls to death and to deny any hope of supplies to the legions. His eyes rose to the featureless blue sky.
‘Great Cicolluis, Mars of Rome, father of war, place your hands around us today.’
He nodded and gestured for the scout to move out of the way.
‘Officers to me. Ride on.’
As the three hundred strong cavalry unit pounded off at a trot in the direction whence the scout had come, the various commanders left their men and converged on Galronus out to the side, keeping pace.
‘The odds are heavily against us,’ he shouted to his men over the pounding of hooves. ‘They have retreated to a hill. From what the scout says they are half civilian and half warriors, those warriors being Ruteni and Aedui. Many of you have fought against or alongside those tribes, and we know how they prosecute war. On the defensive they will have drawn up the wagons and tribesfolk at the high point and surrounded them with Ruteni archers. What foot they have will be defending the archers. The cavalry should be harrying the enemy, but in the circumstances they will either be dismounted and holding the hill or lined up on horseback fighting the enemy off.’
They had to be brave and strong to have made it this long against such a force, but they would not last much longer.
‘I can only presume that the Romans are paying a heavy toll in souls to the Ruteni archers and are keeping their distance. As soon as the archers run out of arrows, it will be over in heartbeats. If the Roman commander is wily he will be delaying, letting the Ruteni expend their arrows on the Hispanic horse and waiting until they are helpless to send in his legions. We have one advantage and one chance.’
It was a small chance. But if it worked, it would be the stuff of legend. The sort of thing Fronto would do…
‘We do not know the enemy commanders, but they will be Pompeians and probably aristocrats. They will not be with their legions, but standing at a highpoint to direct the battle with just their Praetorian units to guard them. Most Roman officers fight thus. One well-placed sword blow to the neck of the army’s senior commander could break the attack.’
A regular Roman cavalryman shook his head. ‘That won’t work, sir. The whole system of tribunes and centurions is designed to keep the army fighting even when their senior men fall.’
Galronus nodded. ‘During ordinary circumstances, yes. But this is civil war. This is a war of commanders. The troops seem to have little heart for fighting their own people. The directions of the generals are critical here. With their seniors dead and the new attack flying Roman banners, we will see just how tied to Pompey’s skirts these men a
re.’
The decurion looked less than convinced, but nodded anyway and fell silent.
The officers dismissed back to their units, the ala rode on, after a short while cresting the hill whence the scout had come, and Galronus’ breath caught in his throat. The land perhaps a mile ahead was awash with men. A sea of figures. As the scout had said, perhaps five or six thousand were gathered on a hill with their wagon train, but three times as many were lined up on the flat land before them. The legions stood in neat squares, three of them, if a little understrength in Galronus’ estimation. They must have slipped from Ilerda during the storm, unnoticed by the Caesarians. The native cavalry they had brought were riding in three wide, loose circles, continually moving, coming close to the defenders and throwing the occasional javelin, then riding back out of danger. Their tactics might be troublesome to infantry, but they were taking far more numerous casualties than they were causing, their javelins killing a few, but the Ruteni arrow storm plucking rider after rider from his saddle.
Sure enough, at the rear, some distance from the reserve lines, a small knot of men on a low rise were surrounded by horsemen. The commander and his staff and bodyguard.
Some quarter mile behind them, back toward the river, there was a long, low ridge. Galronus grinned.
‘I think we can find other ways to break their morale,’ he shouted to his men. ‘Direct your men without loud signals. We head west and into the defile. That ridge will keep us out of sight until we are almost on them.’
Unnoticed as yet by either side in the battle, Galronus’ cavalry ala veered sharply away from the crest of the hill and back out of sight, making first for a scattering of trees and then for the low valley that ran toward the rear of the enemy. Some time in the days following the birth of the world, the gods had moulded the land here into a series of parallel ridges, like spines bulging from the ground. This was one such fold, and would hide them from the action until they were upon it.
FIELDS OF MARS Page 26
