‘Are they turning back?’ Plancus murmured? ‘Returning to Ilerda?’
Caesar shook his head. ‘By now the small force they left there will have fallen and our men will control Ilerda’s heights. They must know that. They are uncertain as to their next step. They cannot have anticipated us reaching this place ahead of them, though they have moved remarkably slowly. Galronus and his cavalry must have been excelling in their work during the night and the morning, slowing the enemy. They seek another defensive position like their last while they decide how to deal with us. But like their previous position, they select a hill in desperation and will find shortly that they, once again, have no access to water, while we have the stream that feeds the village here.’
‘They will move quickly,’ Fronto said.
‘Sorry?’
The officers had turned to look at him, and Fronto folded his arms. ‘Despite setbacks and troubles, and with leaders who can agree on nothing, someone at least in that army can pull their arse back out of the flames. We nearly had them at the hill yesterday, but someone managed to pull them together. It’s happening again. Look.’
The other officers followed his gaze. A unit of auxilia several hundred strong from Petreius’ army had suddenly burst into motion, breaking away from the main force and racing to the northwest. They were Hispanic auxiliaries from the look, lightly armed and armoured, but swift because of it.
‘Where are they going?’ Antonius mused.
‘From what Galronus said, that would be the road to Octogesa.’
‘They’ll find no help there.’
‘No,’ Fronto agreed, ‘but if they can secure the route, they can take the army that way. It doesn’t help them head into the territory they desired, as they’ll still be on this side of the Iberus, but if they can hold us in that valley long enough to ferry much of their army across to the town, that puts the Sicoris between us and them again. And you remember how much trouble that river’s already caused us.’
Caesar nodded with a serious expression. ‘Can we stop those auxilia?’
Fronto shook his head. ‘We’re all heavy infantry, and exhausted ones at that. We’ll never catch them in time, and our horse are just a few light scouts.’
‘Then we must stop them consolidating. If the rest of their infantry move off that hill, I want two legions to deploy across the gap covering the road to Octogesa.’
‘General,’ Fabius said quietly, ‘if you do that then neither route is safely held. They have five legions. We have four, though numerically we’re about matched. But then whichever route they choose to make for, there will only be two legions to stop them.’
‘Fabius, think in broader terms,’ the general said quietly. ‘Two legions will lie between them and freedom, but whichever route they commit to, the other two legions can close upon them like a gate and they will be trapped between both forces. With luck that will not happen anyway. We must make their options too unpalatable.’
‘Why?’ demanded Antonius.
‘Because I would still far rather we accept their surrender, save lives on both sides, and end this with negotiation than with bloodshed. We are all Romans.’
There was a silent moment of uncomfortable acceptance of that fact.
‘But if they manage to secure that route first, it matters not what we plan,’ Fronto murmured.
Now, the main enemy force was beginning to move up the slopes of their chosen hill across the flat ground, once more attempting to command heights against them. Again settling for land with no water. Fronto let out a sharp breath.
‘The cavalry.’
Indeed, as the Pompeian force cleared the valley ahead, its rear guard were fighting a desperate running battle, protecting wagons as they came. Galronus’ horse were on them constantly, cutting at them, swiping at the army again and again. Fronto remembered seeing their wagon train as it was pulled up onto that hill the previous day, and by his estimate at best half of it remained. The rest had either been abandoned for speed issues or had been captured by Galronus and his men as they advanced. Either way it meant more hardship for the Pompeians.
And as that moving battle closed on the hill and Petreius’ legions came out to help defend their supplies and pull them into place, so part of the Caesarian cavalry force broke off the attack and rode out at a tangent.
Fronto smiled, looking forward to seeing Galronus once more, but it did not appear that the officers were the Remi’s goal. A single ala of cavalry, mixed Roman, German and Gallic, raced off around the flat ground, skirting the enemy force and following the Pompeian horse as they rode off toward Octogesa.
Fronto shifted position and peered around the hill, trying to watch what was happening. It was then he realised that the auxilia were not running for the Octogesa pass, but had made instead for a small, high peak that dominated that other valley.
‘They’re trying to secure that mountain. If they can, nothing will shift them and they’ll be able to pour down arrows, bullets and rocks at will. Petreius and Afranius will be able to use their positioning to move the rest of his force that way.’
‘Then should we not deploy the legions there now?’ Fabius urged.
Caesar shook his head. ‘That weakens our guard here and opens the route to the Iberus for them.’
‘Don’t panic,’ Fronto grinned. ‘I think Galronus has this one.’
* * *
Galronus urged his men on. They were tired, and the horses more so, but he needed a little more from them all yet. They had spent night and morning harrying the rear of the Pompeian column as they fled to the south-west, but Galronus had been sensible and spared the horses as much as possible. Each time he ordered two alae in to attack the rear guard and the wagons, he sent the rest ahead with a wide berth, so they could spend half an hour resting before they were required. Then, as they caught up with the rested men, two more alae would be chosen and begin the attack, while the tired warriors joined those moving ahead to rest. It had allowed them to maintain a constant attack on the column, yet still with relatively fresh horses.
For the last mile or so, though, things had been different. The enemy, sensing they were near the valley and safety, had sped up, and Galronus’ men had had no time for rest.
The Remi didn’t have a god of luck. The gods controlled things in their own sphere of influence, of course, but no one could claim to control luck. That was in the very nature of it. Men made their own chance. But since meeting Fronto, Galronus had been steadily coming round to the idea of his friend’s favourite deity. And if anything yet had given him cause to believe in Fortuna, it had been the last few moments.
As the enemy force had changed course and made for their rise to defend once again, Galronus had taken a single ala and ridden out around the edge of the Pompeians, making for Caesar and his officers to discuss their next move. But as soon as they had cleared the valley and the manoeuvring army, he had spotted the cohort or so of native light infantry making for the Octogesa pass. Though he’d no confirmation of what they planned, there could be little doubt that they were meaning to secure it and head for Octogesa, with the Iberus path closed by four legions. Caesar’s force couldn’t stop them in time, for sure. Thanking Fronto’s beloved goddess for this turn of events, Galronus had redirected his riders and raced after the infantry.
The enemy were on foot, but swift, and were already climbing the slope toward the high peak that dominated the pass, and indeed the entire area.
‘Fast as you can. Take them.’
He urged his own horse on, pushing her relentlessly. Caesar’s army couldn’t stop those men, and once they commanded the heights it would take the god Taranis and all his thunderbolts to shift the bastards. And once they hit the real heights, the cavalry would be useless, for their horses couldn’t manage the slope. He had one chance.
They were close. He could see the enemy as individuals, now. They were a mixed group – spearmen, swordsmen, slingers, archers. All native auxiliaries, but all from different u
nits or tribes. And they had been sent with no warning and little organisation, for they were not moving as units but all in one mass, each man trying individually to reach the safety of the heights. That would be the start of their undoing. Men running and fighting as individuals were never truly effective in the field.
The first of the auxilia fell. He was a slinger, armed only with the leather missile weapon and a pouch of stones, armoured only with a white tunic and light calf-skin boots. A rider’s spear plunged into his back and the momentum as the man fell and the horse ran on snapped the shaft at the entry point. The dying, shrieking man fell away with the head of the lance still buried inside him, falling silent only as he was smashed and crushed under the hooves of several horses. The victorious cavalryman simply discarded the broken shaft and drew his sword.
Another man went down to a sword blow, then another to a spear. A Hispanic head rolled free, a native disappeared beneath hooves, bellowing curses and pleas. More enemies died, and then a horseman joined them, transfixed where he sat with a native spear that passed through him, from the hip beneath his chain shirt up through the torso, emerging near the liver and punching through the iron rings from the inside.
A man bellowed something in their rough language and the enemy stopped running, some quicker than others, and turned to face their attackers, brandishing their weapons.
‘Wrong choice,’ shouted Galronus as he swept down his blade and took off an arm just above the wrist, the sword in it falling away still tightly clutched in the fingers of the severed hand.
And it was. While they were running they were dying, but some might have reached the higher slopes where the horses couldn’t go and would have been safe. Now that someone had called for them to stand against the enemy, none would survive. Perhaps they felt secure in that they outnumbered Galronus and his men by almost two to one. If so, they were due a rude awakening. Precious few of them were armoured, and few even carried shields, whose who did sporting just a small, round affair like the ones Galronus had seen gladiators using.
The Remi noble put out a call to his men to surround the enemy, but it was entirely unnecessary. They were already doing so, riders plunging on ahead, then turning to take the lead-most natives. Galronus felt the satisfaction of an assured victory flooding him as his sword rose and fell, biting into leather, or wood, or bronze, but mostly into flesh. He cut and swiped, thrust and chopped, and men fell like chaff before a strong breeze.
It was over in a matter of heartbeats. Hundreds of lightly-equipped Hispanic auxilia lying in heaps, dead or dying, weeping and whimpering the most insistent noise, the metallic tang of blood and the pungent stink of ruptured bowel an overriding cloying stench. Galronus looked around. He could see few riderless horses and there were a few beasts lying among the dead, but those who had gone to the underworld in overwhelming numbers mostly belonged to the enemy.
Despite the noises here, slowly the Remi became aware of another sound, and he turned, wondering at the strange, discordant harmony that warbled along in the background. It was two noises, in fact, from two sources, which was what caused such discordance.
One was the cheering of the Caesarian legionaries blocking the valley to Portus Iberus. They were in loud voice, showing their support and appreciation of the cavalry and their swift and brutal success. But at the same time, a low moan of despair flowed across the valleys from the hill where the Pompeian army now sat, pulling up their wagons into safety and forming a defensive line just as they had on a similar hill some miles away the previous day. The rest of Galronus’ cavalry had now broken off their attacks and come forward to rejoin Caesar’s army.
That was it. The enemy had lost the race to the pontoon bridge and, despite some clever devil’s last minute decision to change course and run for Octogesa, Galronus had destroyed their hope of securing the pass. Even as he watched, the Remi noble could see a large unit of men departing Caesar’s lines and making for his own location. Several centuries of heavy legionaries and a few units of archers and slingers. Not only had Petreius and Afranius lost the chance to control that peak and secure the route for their army, now Caesar was garrisoning it against them, sealing them off from Octogesa as surely as he had done from the bridge.
They had lost the race and were trapped on this side of both rivers. Their best hope now would be to return to Ilerda, but they must be aware they would have to fight Caesar’s rear guard legion there to retake control. They were damned no matter what route they took now.
With luck the commanders would see that and discuss terms.
* * *
‘No,’ Caesar replied, his eyes flashing angrily.
‘General, we are on the cusp of victory. We have them trapped, demoralised, low on supplies, cut off from water. Their men must be all-but ready to put an end to their own officers by now. I know the men are tired, but they will have one night of rest and that will be enough. In the morning, they can storm those slopes and finish the Ilerda legions for good.’
Caesar was trembling slightly as he regarded the defiant figure of Salvius Cursor.
‘For the last time, no! Tribune, you have been advocating blood and fire since the day we crossed the Rubicon. I know you to bear only loathing for Pompey and I appreciate having your vehement support among my officers, but I maintain the position I have held throughout. If Roman lives can be spared, then they must. The time will come for blood and iron, for Pompey will face me and do so with an army at his back, but out in these provinces the legions serve the name of Pompey, not the man himself. They can be turned and saved, and by all the gods, I will do that before I draw one unnecessary drop of Roman blood.’
‘General, don’t dismiss him so readily,’ muttered Antonius, stepping closer.
‘I thought you had unhitched your cart from Salvius’ horse, Marcus?’
‘Prudence calls for action, Gaius,’ Antonius breathed quietly. ‘Salvius Cursor is far from the only man seeking an end to it all. This has gone on for months, and we have seen setback after setback. This is the closest we have been to victory, and is likely the closest we will ever be. Even if Afranius is prepared to make a deal, we both know Petreius will not. Many of the officers silently share Salvius’ opinion, though they do not possess his somewhat forthright attitude, so they will not push for it. And take it from me that even much of the centurionate among the legions is ready now and waiting for the order to unleash Tarterus upon the enemy. You risk alienating your own legions if you will not give them the chance to finish this. They did not train to run around harvesting grain and scratching their arses. They trained to kill the enemy, and they are right now awaiting your command to do just that.’
Caesar’s angry glance tore from Salvius, lit briefly upon Antonius, and then slid to Fronto. With a startled frisson, Fronto realised that the general was running low on support among his officers, and he had turned now to Fronto as the one man in the tent he felt sure would support his pacific, conciliatory stance. Fronto, he knew, would agree with avoiding Roman bloodshed if possible. And he also knew, clever old bastard that he was, that Fronto had pretty much put all his eggs in the general’s basket and could hardly afford to turn on him.
Yet even now, at this dreadful moment of decision, Fronto was struggling. Perhaps it was time to end the ongoing fight for Ilerda. If they let this chance go, would they have another? Might a careful strike now save many lives in the long run? It made him feel sick to even think of agreeing with the warmonger Salvius, but the fact that Antonius and the other officers were coming around to the same idea did not escape him. And Antonius was right. The centurionate were ready for the fight and did want Caesar to unleash them. Felix himself had told Fronto as much. Shit, Felix was one of them who was ready to take that hill. And there was more. Every night, when Fronto laid down on his cot, he drifted away from this nightmare campaign and saw Lucilia and the boys, Balbus and his friends. They should be safe, but he had not heard from them in weeks, and they were in Hispania, after all. And then th
ere was the issue with Catháin and Balbus’ incriminating letters. Things required Fronto’s urgent attention elsewhere and he could not protect his family or help Catháin while he was still following Petreius and Afranius around Hispania, failing to stop them.
The temptation to argue for a fight was almost overwhelming.
Which is why his next words came through gritted teeth.
‘We are good men. We are the wronged who are putting Rome right. Pompey is the sort of man who would climb that hill right now with a knife in his teeth ready to slit Roman throats. Caesar is not, and for that we should all be proud of our service. Any man can kill. Brigands and thieves and beggars. But it takes a great man to be merciful. Any fight we start here kills only Romans. Remember that, when you bow before your altars in your tents. Senatus populusque Romanum. For the senate and the people of Rome. What value do we place on that vow if we espouse it as we kill those same people. I say no. I say Caesar is right. They are close to breaking. What we need to do is not kill them but push them over the edge into surrender.’
‘Caesar,’ Antonius said, glaring at Fronto, ‘the men will not take well to another protracted siege.’
‘The men will do what they are paid to do,’ Caesar replied coldly. ‘And if they mutter dissent, their officers can remind them that they are well paid and well fed, and have plenty of water. Point to the force on that hill and explain how Petreius and Afranius have no access to water. No stores of food barring a few wagons they escorted hither. And with us now in control of Tarraco, what chance do they have of pay?’
Mamurra cleared his throat. ‘All good points, Caesar, but only if they can be truly starved. We could not besiege them properly at Ilerda for they had control of the bridge and the river. Here, they are on a single hill. From there they will be able to range across the nearby slopes and find water. If we hope to end them here, then we must prevent that.’
FIELDS OF MARS Page 33
