FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  Petreius did not look pleased. In fact, had he been chewing on a wasp with his privates in a vice it was unlikely his face could be more sour. Fronto sat silent and dour, his emotions still in turmoil and grateful for this welcome interruption. Yesterday he would have rejoiced and whooped at the very idea that the enemy wished to discuss terms. But what had happened earlier on the battlefield around the hill had shaken Fronto to the very core, and it was hard to become enthusiastic about anything.

  Afranius looked tired by comparison with his fellow general, rather than angry. The senior officers with them, including Tribune Bucco and the younger Afranius, bore strange expressions that were a mix of defeat and hope. For while they had failed in the end, every man on that hill had to be looking forward to an end to hostilities.

  ‘Had we managed to secure that water supply, this conference would be very different,’ Petreius snapped at his companion.

  ‘But we didn’t. And the army can go no further.’

  Petreius glowered and Afranius turned back to Caesar. ‘I cannot repent of my loyalties, Proconsul, and I will not apologise for carrying out my duty to the best of my ability. We took our oath to Pompey Magnus and to have rolled over and shown our belly as you crossed into the province would have been to unman ourselves. I trust you can appreciate that?’

  The general nodded. ‘No man can be truly blamed for holding to his oath and doing his duty. Pompey himself is misguided and badly advised. It is my hope that I can bring him to battle with the minimum of casualties and reconcile, healing the republic. I am grateful that these two armies will not come to blows any further than has already befallen us. The damage would not be to you or I, but to Rome. I am, in fact, disappointed that the bloodshed has not been avoided entirely. I have done my best at every turn to avoid giving battle.’

  The lines of the two armies remained less than a pilum throw apart, with the officers in the small space afforded between them. There was no air of malice about either side, and a palpable sense of relief filled the valley.

  ‘Pompey himself would have to concede that we have done the best a man could do and carried out our duty as far as possible,’ Afranius added, as if trying to reassure himself. Petreius looked less than convinced, and Fronto could understand that. He could picture Pompey’s reaction to hearing of their capitulation and it was not pretty.

  ‘We throw ourselves and our men upon your clemency, Caesar, which is legendary.’ Afranius sighed. ‘I pray that it extends even to the legions of Pompey?’

  Caesar sat silent for a moment. ‘I offered terms,’ he said finally, ‘near Octogesa. To your son and your officers. I offered very favourable terms, in fact. They were not accepted. Indeed, they were not even rejected. My officers were cut down in cold blood and hounded out of your camp like criminals or wild animals.’

  Afranius threw an unpleasant look at Petreius, whose lip curled nastily.

  ‘I apportion the blame for this continued campaign of discomfort and trouble squarely with the officers, barring those who sought peace or have come over to our standards. Men have died needlessly and the butcher’s bill continued to grow even days after peace was offered, because those of you in senior command were unwilling to accept that you had lost.’

  ‘I told you he would offer you nothing,’ spat Petreius. ‘There is still time to end this nobly, with sword points and the blast of cornua.’

  Afranius turned angrily on his fellow general. ‘The officers were unanimous in their support for seeking terms. You alone stand ready to fight. Even if you give the order now, no man will draw his blade for you willingly. It’s over.

  ‘I am willing to offer new terms,’ Caesar said quietly. ‘Different terms. The Ilerda legions can no longer be trusted. Despite my earlier offers, and the clear need to end matters as peacefully as possible, they fought on even when all was clearly hopeless. That mentality has its place, but I cannot have it at my back. The Ilerda legions will not be sent back to their garrisons. The bulk of this army, auxilia included, were raised specifically to counter my legions in Gaul. They are not required for the expansion and maintenance of this province. At most two legions are required in Hispania Citerior. Thus all the Ilerda legions will be disbanded. Their men will receive appropriate recompense as though completing their term normally.’

  Afranius nodded his understanding. Petreius seethed and picked at the stitching of his saddle.

  ‘The legionary officers likewise will return to Rome or to their homes, where they will be forbidden from seeking an active part in military service until this crisis is over and the government of the republic is whole again.’

  ‘And us, Caesar?’ Afranius asked.

  ‘The same. Yourself and Petreius. You are both loyal Romans with a solid record of service and it would diminish the republic to deny it the potential of your talents in the future.’

  ‘Caesar, this is a mistake,’ Antonius said, though the general held up a hand to quieten his friend.

  ‘I have suffered betrayal for my clemency already this year. Ahenobarbus, whom I granted liberty immediately turned upon me and barred one of my most important cities against me. I would not have that happen again. You will both take an oath – you and every officer above centurion grade – not to side with the rebel army of Pompey against me. An oath on your name, that of your familia, on sacred Venus, on wise and war-like Minerva, and on Apollo the oath-keeper. No noble Roman would break that oath. You agree to take such an oath, and I will grant the clemency you seek.’

  Afranius bowed his head in acceptance. Petreius continued to sit proud and angry, with just a curt nod.

  ‘Then let it be known that hostilities are now ceased. All senior officers will present themselves before my staff to take the oath, and as soon as their word is given, water and supplies will be made available while my officers begin the task of dissolving the legions.’

  * * *

  Salvius Cursor had given himself a good scrub, but the signs were still there. At his hairline, in his ears, under his nails were the dark red remnants of his battlefield fury. He was hale and hearty. Every now and then he would glance across at Fronto, his expression unreadable. Fronto had not yet been able to meet his gaze.

  ‘The question remains,’ Caesar said to his officers, ‘what our next move should be. I yearn to return to Massilia and thence to Italia to prepare against the return of Pompey, and the campaigning season marches on apace. Autumn is but a short ride away. Yet Hispania cannot be said to be even nearly settled. Until trustworthy men have been placed in all positions of power and influence here and all Pompeian partisan sentiment suppressed, we cannot rule out a rising against us and so I cannot yet turn my back upon the peninsula.’

  He gestured to Quintus Cassius, the commander of the Sixth Legion. ‘Cassius here served as a quaestor in Hispania under Pompey a number of years ago, but has been a staunch supporter of our cause for some time. Cassius, I am appointing you governor of Hispania, with two legions at your disposal. You will settle the province and watch the borders carefully for any move from Varro in the west. I will convene a meeting at Corduba of all the citizen municipia townships in Hispania to confirm the loyalties of the province and make any appropriate changes to local governance.’

  He straightened and rubbed a shoulder wearily. ‘At such a juncture, we can be sure of Hispania Citerior and the southern cities. It should not be too much of a stretch then to deal with Varro and bring Hispania Ulterior under control. Once that is done, we can turn east once more, sure that the west is fully secure.’

  ‘And what of the enemy legions, General?’ Fabius asked.

  The officers had presented themselves and given their oath on the field the previous afternoon and, once they had recovered, eaten and bathed, many had gathered their personal effects and taken their leave, heading in various directions for their homes or to take ship to family holdings. The Pompeian legions, however remained on the hill, recovering and awaiting instruction.

  ‘I have alrea
dy given orders that those soldiers with land or holdings in Hispania be dismissed to return to their homes. They will be departing this day. The rest – some two thirds of them by all estimates – will be given two options.’

  He motioned to Quintus Fufius Calenus, who stepped forward. ‘Caesar?’

  ‘The remaining troops will be given the option of taking a new oath. Those who wish to do so will be filtered into our extant legions to bring our numbers back up to strength. They will not be concentrated in any grouping. For security they will be widely dispersed throughout all legions such that no two of them continue to share a tent. The rest of the men are your responsibility, Calenus.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘They must be removed from familiar territory and Pompeian influence. You will take one of our legions and escort those Pompeian troops who have not been added to our numbers east. They will be marched out of Hispania, across Narbo and the province there to the Varus River within Cisalpine Gaul. There they shall be settled as veterans in peace. Calenus, this is your task. Settle them somewhere safe and then return to Massilia with your legion.’

  ‘And Massilia, General?’ Fabius asked.

  ‘Trebonius is a good man. We will have to trust that he has the situation in Massilia under control. I know Governor Varro of old. He is not a strong man, nor a particularly brave one. I cannot see him holding Hispania Ulterior against us, or not for long at least. He is no Petreius. By the end of autumn, I foresee Hispania being settled, and I will then bring all spare legions with me back to Massilia. If Trebonius has not taken the city by then, the increase in manpower should help draw matters to a close.’

  Fufius Calenus cleared his throat. ‘General, might Trebonius not benefit in his siege from the presence of Mamurra?’

  The general nodded thoughtfully. ‘I believe you are correct. And his talents would be wasted in political manoeuvring and threat in the south. Mamurra, return to Trebonius at Massilia and help him put an end to it.’ Caesar turned, his eyes playing over the gathered officers. ‘Fronto, you can take a cohort of the Eleventh and escort Mamurra east. I doubt I shall have use of your rather unique oratorical talents in Corduba. Take Salvius Cursor. He seems to have a knack for resolving dangerous problems.’

  Fronto winced. It was precisely what he’d hoped for: a return to Massilia. He could stop by Tarraco and the family on the way and then try and resolve Balbus’ little problem. But one thing he had hoped for above all else was to leave Salvius behind. His eyes rose to the tribune, who was looking directly at him, and deep-seated guilt suddenly flowed through every part of him once more.

  ‘As you say, Caesar.’

  Damn it.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  2nd of Sextilis – Massilia

  Brutus strode out of the building that served as his headquarters on the island, hurriedly pinning his cloak in place. It may still be summer at Massilia, but the sea could carry a cutting breeze nonetheless.

  ‘What did it say, precisely?’

  The sailor – one of a number of scouts he had put in position facing the city to keep him apprised of any activity – shrugged. ‘I’ve been a long time out of that game, admiral. My knowledge is rusty at best, but there is definitely another fleet departing Massilia with immediate effect. The signals didn’t carry the same warnings of direct danger, though. Whoever it is using the signal light was quite vague.’

  ‘If he is risking everything to send us signals from the walls, we have to trust that he is doing the best he can. Perhaps the enemy are fleeing? Maybe Ahenobarbus is returning to his master? Whatever the case, we need to stop ships leaving every bit as much as entering Massilia. How’s the fleet?’

  ‘Ready to sail, sir.’

  Brutus nodded and descended the stairs toward the wharf. In more peaceful times, this island and the small dock and structures on it had been used as something of a ‘holding pen’ for busy times in the port. When ships were backed up they could put in here to jetties and wait for their turn in Massilia, for the city was without doubt one of the busiest and most wealthy of all the ports on the Mare Nostrum. Now, it served as Brutus’ base of operations and was perfect for the task, but for the fact that the jetties were not facing the city. In fact, the place was part of an archipelago of four islands, and the various rocks, combined with the shape and orientation of the islands, made this very location the most comfortable, sheltered harbour, but faced inconveniently away from the besieged city.

  Eighteen ships sat at the jetties, almost filling the small port. Twelve he had built at Arelate, plus the six he’d captured during that ridiculous naval engagement over a month ago. They were now all well-supplied and decked out for war, and the crews had been augmented with every good sailor or brave soldier Brutus could lay his hands on. The Massiliots might still outnumber him, but his fleet was better and more prepared than ever.

  Across the harbour, men were scurrying aboard ships and things being made ready. The ships were prepared to sail.

  ‘Give the order,’ Brutus shouted, waving to the musician at his balcony above the quayside. The man lifted his horn and blew a sequence of notes. The ships began to move, pulling away from the jetties almost immediately, and Brutus picked up the pace, making for his flagship, the Superbia – a wide and strong trireme taken from Ahenobarbus last month. There was something satisfying about using the enemy’s best ship as his command vessel. He had renamed it the Superbia – the Pride – in acknowledgement his family’s descent from Tarquinius Superbia, the last king of Rome.

  Barely had he slipped aboard than the ramp was drawn in and the ship began to depart, following much of the fleet, which was already making for open water. The south-east-north-west orientation of the harbour made for easy arrival and departure, the prevailing summer winds allowing ships to drift into port close-hauled on a port tack, with little need for rowing, and out in a similar fashion. The sailors used their oars to heave the vessel out away from the wooden jetty and then beat a short rhythm in the water to the piper’s tune just to gain momentum. By the time Brutus was at the bow with the commander of his legionary marines, the sails had billowed free and then been set to broad reach on the starboard side. The oars were shipped and the wind carried the Superbia smoothly out of harbour and toward the Mare Nostrum.

  No matter how many times he experienced it, this moment always thrilled Brutus. No grunting dip and thrust of oars, no fighting, ramming, desperate manoeuvring or shouting of orders. No worry about the enemy. Just the beautiful, peaceful, almost dream-like placidity of drifting out on the water with the practiced precision of a good sailor.

  All too soon the peace was over. The Superbia rounded the first of the two rocky headlands and began to jostle into position at the heart of the fleet. As they approached the second bluff, a signal was given by the trierarch at the rear and the entire fleet fell into unified motion, the same tune playing on each vessel, its piper tapping the beat with his foot as hundreds and hundreds of oars rose, circled and dipped, tearing through the water and pushing the vessel onwards before breaking free in a burst of white foam and cycling to dip again. On each ship the sail was furled. There was little wind and it would only take a mis-set sheet to cause havoc with the fleet’s disposition.

  It was not as peaceful as the departure under calm sail, but there was something beautiful about such organised efficiency at sea, too. The mechanical precision of it all.

  The trierarch prepared to turn, shouting the orders for the rowers and the aulete with his pipes but, as the first ships rounded the headland, the whole plan changed and orders were given to push dead ahead, with an increase in pace.

  The Massiliot fleet had indeed put to sea again, and there were as many ships now as there had been on that previous occasion. Brutus strained to see the enemy, his eyes watering in the salty breeze. They had departed the harbour of Massilia, but rather than racing for the island as they had last time, they were running south along the coast toward the
headland where the shoreline turned east. The same prevailing wind that had allowed Brutus’ ships to drift out of the harbour under sail was filling the enemy’s sails and driving them at speed.

  They were fleeing.

  They had to be.

  At this distance – something around a mile and a half – the precise makeup of the ships in the fleet was rather difficult to determine, but the young Roman’s sharp eyes and practiced seamanship picked out a few salient details. While there were as many ships as there had been on that previous occasion, they were this time of a much different makeup. Many were much smaller – fishing boats or minor traders that had obviously been hurriedly outfitted to bulk out the fleet. None of those would be of great use against the besieging fleet, many of whom were large, heavy military vessels.

  But they were not coming for a fight. They were running along the coast. Perhaps they had hoped, with the many rocky headlands and coves combined with the impressive speed of the following wind, to clear the area before Brutus and his fleet got wind of their emergence?

  ‘Beam reach,’ Brutus shouted back at the trierarch.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Set full sail on the beam reach. We have to catch them.’

  ‘Admiral, if there is just one mishap…’

  ‘Order the ships to space out as best they can, but I want every oar in that water pushing us forward and we make use of every breath Zephyrus gives us. As soon as they round the second headland and break east the wind will throw them ahead. Forget the risks... full sail and oars.’

  The trierarch clearly disapproved, but the signal was given, regardless. Across the fleet, eighteen ships reacted with military efficiency, sails thumping free and booming as they caught the wind, while sailors hauled on ropes to secure them and set them in the beam reach position to make the best of conditions. Even as the sails caught and the ships were hurled onwards with sudden rapidity, the pipers on each vessel changed tune, the rhythmic melody changing to a jaunty, staccato refrain that had every oar rise and dip, rise and dip, rise and dip at a vastly increased pace.