‘We should have taken them while we could, Gaius.’
All eyes turned to Antonius, whose expression was uncharacteristically severe.
‘And by now the landscape would have acquired two more hills, beneath which lay the honoured dead of two armies, both of whom are Roman. No. Yesterday proved that Petreius is harsh, defiant and resourceful. But it also proved how close we are to resolving this without a sea of blood. We go on. A few more days, gentlemen. A few more days and we will have them on their knees, begging for terms.’
* * *
Fronto passed through the gateway with his spirits deep in his boots, catching sight of the mass of Galronus’ cavalry racing around the outer slope, making for the rear of Petreius’ army. Everything was still in place, where the enemy had left it, from tents to cook pots to the carcasses of animals. There was the post to which Bucephalus had been tied.
The sky was still only beginning to lighten, faint traces of gold threaded through the pale mauve. The ground was gloomy and Fronto had to check each step carefully for what might lie underfoot. The bodies of the nine men from the Eleventh were not there. He’d half expected them to be left where they lay like the rest of the camp, but they had gone.
The men of his chosen cohort moved into the camp behind him, spreading out by tent party, looking for anything of use or import. The army would be on the move within the hour, following Petreius back toward Ilerda, but while the rest of the men made ready to leave, Fronto had given one cohort the task of searching the hill. No one had argued with the right of the Eleventh to do so, though every man in the camp would be twitching at the thought of potential booty to be had. Their primus pilus had fallen in this place, and everyone knew what that meant to a legion.
For a further half hour, the men scoured the hill, secreting away anything of value they found, gathering any supplies or weapons left behind, searching lockers and chests for anything important. Fronto made his way to the crest of the hill, leaving them to it. There he found something for which he’d not been prepared. Fourteen funerary urns sitting in a row, each with a neatly inscribed label. Behind them was a large area of ash, where the pyre had been lit. The Caesarian troops had not paid it any attention during the night. The enemy had their own dead to burn, of course. But the fact was that they had paid deference to the dead of the Caesarian army, too.
Fourteen meant other men had died as well as his own nine. Were they Petreius’ cavalry or some others? He found Felix’s urn easily enough and sighed as he lifted the heavy jar. “Lucky”. He’d been named that for years. Given how the republic was going, maybe it was ironic and he had been lucky to be out of it so soon.
‘There were others,’ said a voice. ‘Too many to burn and honour properly. These were your men and a few scouts and pickets the general had taken. He had them executed in front of the headquarters, before the whole army.’
The voice belonged to a man in a centurion’s uniform who stood in the doorway to the command tent.
‘You did them honour.’
‘They were Romans,’ the man replied. ‘We put a coin in every mouth to pay the boatman. They deserved no less.’
‘And you alone remained?’
‘Hardly,’ the centurion said, and stepped out to one side. A steady stream of men emerged from the tent, mostly centurions, with occasional optios, three tribunes and a prefect. Fronto noted Bucco as one of the men.
‘We almost had peace,’ he said, nodding to the tribune.
‘We did,’ Bucco replied. ‘And we still will. Afranius fought our corner well. He is ready, though he went with Petreius anyway. He is not willing to leave his legions to his fellow general.’
‘Good man.’
‘And because he went, so did his son.’
Fronto sighed. ‘But because they went, there is still a chance for terms.’
‘This war needs to be over,’ Bucco said sourly. ‘I am new to the legions, and already I tire of the killing.’
Fronto gave the man an odd smile. ‘That might just make you a good officer.’
Chapter Sixteen
1st of Sextilis – near Ilerda
‘Why don’t we just use the scouts, find a quicker path and get ahead of them?’ Plancus muttered as he watched the latest dead being ferried back on stretchers. Fronto, sitting astride Bucephalus next to his fellow legate, sighed.
‘A whole number of reasons. Firstly, what happens if we get ahead and block their path, but they change direction and decide to press for Tarraco? Our army sits in the hills all day and waits for an opposition that isn’t coming while they get a good head start. Then there’s the trouble in doing so. These hills aren’t that high, but they’re spotted with protruding rock ridges and covered with olive groves. Cavalry would be in trouble crossing them, and we learned how troublesome the terrain can be when we went ahead near Octogesa. No one wants to repeat that journey across the rocks.’
‘But if we can’t get ahead of them, they might make Ilerda and wipe out the garrison there.’
Fronto shook his head. ‘Once we get out of the hills and into the open we can manoeuvre properly and stop them. Caesar’s confident in that, and I’m content we can contain them then. Besides, the general is happy to move slowly for now. Our scouts have located the only few sources of water in these hills and none of them are in Petreius’ path. Every hour his troops spend moving back toward Ilerda, they get more and more thirsty and parched. And I can guarantee you that every hour more and more men and officers in that army are thinking of turning on their commanders. An army can go without pay for some time, and on tight rations for a stint, but no army can survive more than a few days without water. They’ve not had access to fresh supplies now in more than three days and, without their wagons, they must have used up what water they were carrying.’
Certainly there were signs to that effect.
Every hour of the journey small knots of Pompeian soldiers fled their own lines and ran toward the Caesarian ones, waving their arms in supplication, seeking asylum within Caesar’s ranks in the hope of slaking their desperate thirst. Their companions who remained in the enemy lines did nothing to stop their friends’ defection, which said a great deal of the current atmosphere in Petreius’ army. And every few hundred paces they moved at this interminable slow speed, men simply dropped to the ground, their weapons and shields discarded, too weak to continue.
Those men close to dying of thirst found succour among the enemy. Where a Pompeian legionary lay parched and choking in the wake of his army, Caesar’s men would pause in their pursuit to give the man a small flask of water and make sure he could swallow. This was truly a war of brothers.
But the pursuit was costing Caesar’s army, too. They had moved just seven miles the first day, leaving the passes of Octogesa and moving through the hills. And though Caesar’s legions had swiftly caught up with the Pompeians, every pace of that journey had been a fight.
The enemy kept light and swift auxilia to the rear, and their native cavalry and archers next, with the legions to the fore. Every time they reached an incline, they would slow and, as soon as the Caesarians got too close, the archers would loose arrow clouds above the rear guard. Every time they reached a downwards slope, the auxilia would swiftly move aside and the enemy cavalry would make a charge, slowing the pursuit as they dealt with the threat so that Petreius’ men could move on.
Seven miles of repeated arrow storms or cavalry charges, interspersed with pushes against the auxiliary rear guard that were half-hearted at best. Men were dying on both sides and no one had the leisure to collect and dispose of the dead. The bodies had been, through necessity, left where they fell. That first night, when the two armies made camp facing one another, Petreius yet again on a parched dry hill, search parties had taken the precious few horses and wagons they could muster – many taken from the deserted Pompeian camp – and gathered up the dead along the seven mile route, shooing off scavenging beasts and the birds of twilight pecking out eyes and other so
ft, juicy meat. They had loaded up with the dead of both sides to bring back to the camp for cremation.
That night had almost been a disaster. Before dawn the next morning, the bodies were prepared for the rites, and cohorts were sent hither and thither, some hunting water for the army, others foraging where they could, and more collecting wood for the numerous pyres.
The enemy had once again made a surprise break for it, while Caesar’s army was still widely dispersed. The general, irritated at being so duped, had ordered the army into immediate pursuit. Tents were left where they were, along with most of the supplies and the soldiers’ effects. Scouts were sent out after the forage and water parties with orders that they follow on with all alacrity, and the legions moved off swiftly, once more on the heels of Petreius and Afranius.
Now, another seven miles into the second day of pursuit, things were coming to a head. With an estimated six miles left between the Pompeians and the bridge to Ilerda, the pursuit was about to change. Just ahead, the hills ended and the land dropped to those rich, fertile plains of grain. There, Caesar’s army would no longer be constricted by terrain, and Galronus’ cavalry would once more come into their own, able to rove wide and harass the enemy. And even if, by some miracle, the army of Petreius reached the Sicoris at Ilerda, there would not be enough time to feed their army back across the bridge and retake their camp. Caesar’s forces would be upon them, trapping them against the river.
Here, in the last few valleys, Petreius had his men fighting back hard. Despite the desertions and the men dropping of thirst, the enemy were numerous and strong, and their general had them defiant still. Whether through loyalty or fear, the results were the same.
Fronto watched as a cohort of the Ninth and another of his own Eleventh broke into a run, charging the rear guard of the enemy. The Pompeian auxiliaries once more formed a dense shield wall, their spears projecting as archers behind them loosed arrows at will and a few cavalrymen joined in, casting their light javelins over their compatriots and into the pursuing force.
Once more, the two cohorts took a few casualties, caused a few, and pulled back into position. It was all very half-hearted on both sides. The Caesarians pushed for a fight constantly in an attempt to shatter the failing spirits of the enemy and force them to terms. The Pompeians fought back only as much as they needed to in order to protect themselves, for they had neither the inclination nor the energy to kill other Romans.
Yet the fighting went on, through stubbornness and necessity.
Horn blasts rang out suddenly from the enemy force ahead and Fronto rose in his saddle, peering into the late afternoon sun, trying to identify the cause of the call.
‘They’re stopping again. It’s late afternoon. They must be securing themselves for the night.’
Hoof beats announced the approach of several horses and Fronto turned to see Caesar, Antonius, Mamurra and Fabius riding forward to join them.
‘They’re going to make camp on another hill,’ Plancus announced, pointing ahead at the enemy.
‘Not much of a hill, is it?’ Antonius noted, eyeing the low, figure eight-shaped mound. ‘Not exactly the most formidable defensive position.’
‘It’s a matter of necessity I think,’ replied Fronto. ‘We can’t be more than half an hour’s march away from the flat lands now. This is their last opportunity to camp in the hills with relative safety. After that they’re in the wide open.’
‘More than that,’ Mamurra added. ‘I’ve been looking at the maps, and by my estimation we’re little more than a mile from the Sicoris now. We’ve been gradually closing on the river. You know what that means.’
‘Petreius is within reach of water.’
‘No,’ Caesar said in a dark voice. ‘They are so close to breaking now. We have them over the fulcrum and we just need to apply a little more pressure. They are starving and parched dry. They are trapped on this side of the Iberus, too far from Tarraco to be of any help, and now they realise they cannot make Ilerda without us trapping them at the bridge. Tonight there will be a council of officers in that camp and Petreius will find it almost impossible to keep his men under control. They are ready to break, but we must – must – continue to apply that pressure.’
He turned to Mamurra. ‘How quickly can you put fortifications in place?’
The engineer shrugged. ‘Enough to stop a tired and thirsty legion? A few hours.’
‘Good. Take the Ninth and Eleventh and seal off the northern side of that hill. Any approach from there toward the Sicoris is to be shut. Use the legions to guard the passes and to build your rampart, but I don’t want a single man from that hill to reach water. This is it, gentlemen. We are on the cusp, at last.’
Fronto nodded. In truth, he’d felt they were on the cusp more than once already during this never-ending slog around the Ilerdan hills, and as yet to no avail. Until this week he’d never considered the possibility that there could be more than one cusp.
‘This now comes down to their commanders,’ he said, thoughtfully.
‘Fronto?’
‘Hmm? Oh, thinking out loud. What happens next is down to Afranius and Petreius. The last two days have taught us that no matter how desperate they are, their generals still have control. Afranius might just be ready to deal, but what I’ve seen of Petreius first-hand suggests he would skin himself and go swimming in a salt bath before surrendering. But the army is commanded by them both, and they no longer have anywhere to run. In the morning, they have a simple choice. Capitulate and seek terms, or lock shields and try to destroy us.’
‘Let us pray, then, that desperation and Romanitas win out in their debates,’ Caesar said quietly. ‘Now take your legions around the north of that hill and seal off the approach to water.’
Fronto and Plancus accompanied Mamurra as the legions deployed. The remaining forces began to encamp opposite the hill and fortify their position, while the Ninth and Eleventh set off, skirting enemy missile range, and moved toward their temporary position covering the northern valleys. The three officers, with a cavalry escort, moved a little closer to the enemy position, risking potential arrows in an attempt to get a better picture of the opposition.
‘They look dreadful,’ Plancus said with a touch of revulsion.
They did. The enemy were uniformly dirty and unkempt, miserable and exhausted. Fronto watched with distaste as a horse was dragged forward just behind the enemy lines, his cavalry rider protesting and struggling as half a dozen legionaries cut the beast’s throat and drained the blood. Even as some began to butcher the animal for meat and more soldiers went to drag another cavalryman’s horse into the open killing zone, Fronto averted his disgusted gaze while legionaries drank the thick warm blood in a desperate attempt to maintain the strength to walk and fight.
‘This cannot be over soon enough,’ he said, his gorge rising as they turned away and made for the saddle between two hills. Scouts awaited them as they moved into position, the legions following on close behind.
‘The enemy have already been through here, seeking water,’ one of the riders told him.
‘That was quick,’ Fronto muttered. ‘When and how many?’
‘They were probably moving ahead of the enemy force. They will have been out of sight, making for the Sicoris even before the enemy positioned themselves on the hill. I would say, from the tracks, maybe two turmae of cavalry.’
Fronto nodded. It made sense. Send out the men to gather the water before you arrive. And cavalry meant they could bring more back with them, and faster, than infantry.
‘Then they’ll be coming back any time.’ He waved at the approaching column and gritted his teeth as Salvius Cursor came riding out ahead in response.
‘Get the men moving at speed. Space them out right around the hill and down to the Ilerda direction. Enemy riders will be coming back from the river at any time and trying to break back into their camp. We have to stop them.’
Salvius saluted and, without a word, rode back to join the First C
ohort of the Eleventh. Moments later the front cohorts of the legion broke into double speed, jogging and jingling as they moved to half-encircle the enemy position. Fronto turned to Plancus and Mamurra.
‘Get the Ninth covering this end and beginning work on your fortifications. I’m going to take the rest of the Eleventh around the hill and make sure the enemy don’t get that water.’
Plancus nodded and he and Mamurra began to point at features in the terrain and discuss matters as the legion closed on them, while Fronto rode back toward the rest of the Eleventh, five more cohorts of men moving into position. A junior tribune sat almost regal and aloof on his horse, though he had the grace to look a little less pompous as he saw Fronto bearing down on him.
‘Legatus?’
‘Take three cohorts and spread them out to reinforce the rest of the men. Watch for any movement from the enemy camp and repulse it, but keep an eye out behind you, too, for enemy riders carrying water.’
Without waiting for acknowledgement, Fronto gestured to the lead century’s officer. ‘Have your cornicen give the signals. I want the Seventh and Eighth cohorts to follow me at triple time. We have the hill half-surrounded, but the enemy will make use of any access they can get, and I have an idea.’
* * *
Half an hour later, Fronto stood on a small hillock, squinting into the glow of the setting sun. Lines of men led off from here in a wide arc around the enemy hill, all the way to Caesar’s position, though he couldn’t see the main army from here. He turned about-face and peered into the distance. There were still a mile or so of gradually diminishing hills and, though he couldn’t spot the plains, the river or Ilerda, he fancied he could just see the faint golden glow of the town’s lights and fires over the hill tops. They were that close.
FIELDS OF MARS Page 36
