Every eye watched the horizon unceasingly. Gods were beseeched, meals eaten with sullen silence. Always the creaking and splashing. Yet despite the collective nerves, the afternoon brought only empty sea, and as darkness fell Fronto had expected to feel relieved. He did not.
Each ship was obliged to hang a lantern at the prow, the stern, and amidships at intervals, so that collisions in the darkness could be avoided. While that helpfully prevented the Caesarian fleet from shifting and crashing into one another, it would also make them visible for miles, like a huge swarm of fireflies just above the water’s surface.
Few men slept that night for more than an hour, and those who did slept badly. Still, it seemed Fortuna, Mars and Neptune were all with them, for they passed that long, nervous night safe and unmolested.
The morning brought clear open seas and icy air, and once more every eye studied the horizon.
To Fronto’s knowledge the first time a soldier had laughed or raised his voice happened after noon on the second day when the call went out from the lead ship that land had been spotted. At first Fronto thought they must be dreadfully off course, as he peered myopically at the coastline approaching at speed. He’d assumed they would be making for one the large ports. He’d heard the names Apollonia and Dyrrachium tossed about in briefings, though he’d been only half-listening to the plans for the landing. It was the journey and the stages that followed disembarkation that he was focused upon: puking and fighting.
Instead of one of the great port cities of Illyricum, what faced them on this foreign coast was a line of high, green hills, dotted with small signs of life, bordered by a stunning beach of white sand that stretched more than a mile in each direction.
It took four hours to disembark the army onto that stretch of white beach, using rowing boats to ferry men from the larger ships that could not come too close for fear of becoming grounded, and the afternoon was already acquiring a tint of dusk when the full force was ashore. Once the Tenth, or at least the thousand men drawn from the Tenth on that trip, were all ashore, Salvius had them form up. The sense of relief was palpable. Every man had at least half expected to be attacked and drowned on the journey, yet here they were on a deserted beach under a chilly winter late afternoon sun.
Fronto was inspecting his men, checking for signs of illness or trouble after the crossing, when a call went up from one of the scouts at the edge of the landing site. The entire beach leapt to action, centurions shouting and whistles blowing before it became apparent that the force the watchman had sighted was friendly. Such was the trouble with a civil war: being certain who was who.
The exploratory army relaxed at the news and fell back into their formations awaiting further orders as a small cavalry force emerged through the greenery at the edge of the beach and began to plod across the white sand towards the small knot of senior officers. Fronto left the Tenth to Salvius and Atenos, who was busy berating a legionary, apparently for not being perfect, and hurried across to the staff. He smiled at the sight of the column of horsemen. They showed signs of hardship, wounds evident and eyes rimmed with tired red, but they looked strong and confident regardless, and none more so than the officer at their head: Marcus Antonius.
‘Well met, Caesar,’ he said wearily as he slipped from his horse’s back and handed the reins to one of his men, stamping his feet in the soft sand.
‘Antonius. Ill tidings still?’
‘Mixed, in truth. We have suffered several small defeats in trying to clear out Pompeian forces and secure the Illyrian coast. Only small sections are under our control. My brother was forced to surrender an entire army at Curicta following betrayal by one of his officers – Titus Pullo, no less. One of your old heroes from Gaul, the treacherous bastard. We still have small forces here and there, but nothing like this. Thank the gods you’re here and we can turn things around.’
‘That doesn’t sound very mixed,’ Fronto huffed.
‘On the bright side,’ Antonius said, ‘you’ve got here safely and now we have a chance. The local section of Pompey’s fleet is split. The nearest grouping is at Oricum about twenty miles north, but round a huge headland, and they’re of little or no use. Rufus and Vespillo seem to be terrified of the Adriatic in winter. They’ve eighteen ships that haven’t been out of port in months. The main force is with Bibulus at Corcyra about thirty or forty miles south, but he’s had his ships all over the place and his crews on shore leave. News of your fleet sighted out at sea spread pretty quick, but it’ll take Bibulus a while to gather his fleet together.’
‘Will we have time to send the ships back to Brundisium?’ Brutus put in. ‘The rest of the army awaits collection there.’
Antonius shrugged. ‘It’s a guessing game. If Bibulus waits long enough to gather his full fleet you’ll have time. If he just put to sea with whatever ships he had in port as soon as you were sighted, he could already be just around the next headland, and would probably still have enough ships to stop you. Bibulus is a dangerous one. A nasty piece of work.’
Caesar nodded slowly. ‘I remember him well. We served as aediles together and the man blocked and vetoed my every move. He has been at worst an enemy, but at best a thorn in my side for decades. We need to get the ships back out to open sea fast and gone to Brundisium before the enemy arrives. And if we bring the men inland, that fleet will not be able to pin us down. Brutus? I need you to take the ships back to Brundisium. Antonius, you go too. You are my eyes, ears and fist. Bring me my army.’
The two officers nodded their acceptance.
‘Calenus?’
The staff officer turned in surprise from where he’d been discussing pickets with a tribune. ‘General?’
‘Take two hundred of our best men as marines. Split them between the warships of Antonius and Brutus and make sure they get back to Brundisium safely. There is always the possibility of bumping into a lone enemy trireme who might try their luck, and despite Pompey’s great achievement, we all know that he didn’t completely clear the seas of pirates. A poorly defended convoy of merchant vessels will look attractive.’
Fufius Calenus saluted and began to give orders to his men, then he and Brutus rushed off to begin preparations with the fleet, who had been preparing to anchor until first light.
Antonius snorted. ‘I was hoping to have a bath and a hot meal before anything else. I shall have to make do with a damp cloth and a jar of Chian.’
‘The day a single jar of wine lasts you, the gods will end the world,’ Caesar said flatly. ‘What news of Pompey, other than his fleets?’
Antonius pursed his lips. ‘There are two main winter quarters on the coast, both currently defended. Both have enough forces that we’ve not tried to break them, and I think they would even stand against this lot, though things will change when the rest get here. That’s Apollonia and Dyrrachium. Pompey himself, with the bulk of his army, has been off inland, in Macedonia, though there are reports that he’s headed back this way. I would say you’ve got sufficient force now to take Oricum, or one of the smaller cities in the area. Perhaps we can take command of the local towns, but it’s not worth trying for Apollonia or Dyrrachium until I return with the reserves.’
‘With luck you can bring the rest of the army over unmolested and we can dig in before Pompey gets here. If we can create a strong bridgehead, maybe with these towns of which you speak, perhaps we can wrest control of the region from him and force him back.’
‘Perhaps,’ Antonius replied, ‘but one thing I’ve learned out here is never to rely on a plan working out.’
With that, Antonius clasped Caesar’s hand and strode away towards Brutus and Calenus. The ships were already beginning to come about with some difficulty. Acilius, one of the staff loitering nearby, cleared his throat. ‘The wind is coming in off the sea, General, and it’s picking up. There’s a storm in the offing, and even now there will be an adverse wind for departure. And we’re already starting to lose the light. I wonder if it might be better to wait until morning?�
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Caesar’s jaw twitched slightly. ‘And if Bibulus arrives with two score heavy warships before then? Then we shall have a beach full of kindling and no way to bring across the rest of the army. No, they must depart now and move with all speed.’ He turned and addressed the officers in general. ‘Have all your forces move from the beach up to better ground and fortify for the night. We shall set up signal stations on the shore’s highest points, and there we shall await the rest of the army. For myself, I want to find the best viewpoint to watch proceedings.’
Fronto left them to it and strode back to the Tenth. Salvius Cursor was busily berating someone for the quality of their kit, which earned Fronto’s rare approval, and so the legate singled out Atenos, waving him over. ‘Have the Tenth move up into the hills behind the beach and settle in for the night. Have a fence of wattle put up if you can manage it but dig in however you can. Get moving straight away, because seven legions will be on their way looking for the best position and I don’t want the Tenth camped in the latrine because we were late to the party.’
Atenos grinned. ‘I’ll have this lot in place by the time you can say “bollocks”, sir’
Fronto chuckled as the primus pilus turned and gestured to the men of the Tenth.
‘Listen up, the lot of you. We’re heading for that hill up there,’ he pointed to a nice, flat-topped hill a thousand paces or so from the sand. ‘And I want to be camped there before another legion finds it. The first man up there gets a jar of wine. The last gets a week’s latrine duty.’
There was a murmur among the men and Atenos waved his hands. ‘What are you waiting for?’
With sudden shouts the legionaries burst into life, their centurions alongside as they broke all formation and began running for the greenery behind the beach in eight-man units at best. Salvius Cursor turned to Atenos and Fronto. ‘Poor discipline. What if they are ambushed?’
Fronto shrugged. ‘Scouts have been crawling around those hills for the last four hours. If they were dangerous we’d know by now. If you’re so concerned, go with them.’
Atenos saluted and jogged off after his men. Salvius threw his commander a last, bitter, disapproving look, then followed. Fronto smiled at the rest of the units moving off the beach in an orderly manner. All well and good, but someone there would end up camped on a thirty degree slope among prickly plants. Not the Tenth. Leaving it all to Atenos and Salvius, he turned and made for the small corral of officers’ horses, where an equisio was busy brushing down Bucephalus. He could see Caesar and a few of the others already mounted and heading off the beach towards a high spur to the north that should grant a commanding view of the coast in both directions.
Retrieving his ageing black horse and mounting with only a couple of groans, Fronto walked him off along the beach after the officers. It took almost half an hour to reach the vantage point, where two of the legions’ scouts were already in position. Dismounting and handing over the reins to a legionary who tethered the mounts, the small knot of nine officers moved to a high, flat rocky outcrop that jutted from the bushes and trees. The view was excellent. To the north, the beach swiftly petered out and became a rocky shoreline, with the hills dropping right down to the water’s edge. To the south, the sands stretched some three miles before disappearing around a promontory, the next bay and headland just visible in the failing light. The beach was all-but empty now, a few small units busy there, but the bulk of the legions busy setting up camp in the hills behind.
The wind blowing in off the Adriaticum was cold and becoming stronger all the time, and was considerably more noticeable up here in such an exposed location. Fronto turned to look out to sea. The fleet was a mess. Not through lack of command ability, for certain with Brutus on board. But with such a disparate group of vessels of different sizes and capabilities, it was almost impossible to keep them working in concert. Some of the vessels were designed to rely on wind in the sails far more than any oars, and with an adverse breeze blowing in off the sea, they were having some difficulty making headway. Despite Caesar’s persuasive argument, Fronto was beginning to think that Acilius had been right in advocating a delay.
Something ruffled the hairs on the back of his neck and he shivered. He knew something was wrong even before the call went up, and was already moving forwards, his eyes raking the sea’s surface.
‘Ships sighted,’ bellowed one of the legionaries on sentry duty, pointing away to the south.
The man had damn good eyes. Fronto took some time to locate them, but when he did, a cold stone of certainty settled in his belly. Disaster was about to strike. Even as he peered into the distant evening light he could see more and more of them. Perhaps fifty ships, perhaps even more. All good, strong and well-equipped warships, too. Bibulus’ fleet. The ragtag flotilla leaving the beach stood no chance, even with the dozen warships escorting them. It was like watching a pack of wolves racing towards a panicked flock of sheep.
‘Can they make it?’ Caesar breathed.
Acilius, apparently a man with some naval experience, sucked in cold air through his teeth. ‘No, Caesar. Perhaps the fastest and strongest will be able to outpace them and make it to the relative safety of open sea. The slower ones are doomed.’
Fronto nodded unhappily, watching the disaster unfold. The commanders of the fleet had clearly come to the same conclusion. At an unheard command, far out to sea, the twelve warships and the fastest of the civilian fleet began to pick up pace, abandoning the slower ships. The flotilla resembled a frayed rope giving and then breaking. The lead vessels raced away, making for the dark waters of open sea, risking sailing without lights, which would increase the danger of collisions, but make them much more difficult to spot at a distance in the fading light.
The nearest, slowest vessels clearly decided they could not make it out to sea and would be prey to the enemy. Some dithered in open water, still heading west, but too slow, too late. Others were turning, but again indecisively and far too slow. Bibulus’ fleet was cutting through the water like a sharp knife at an astonishing speed. A small collection of ships were making for the beach now, a large group out to sea and rapidly disappearing, a few unable to either race away fast enough or retreat in time. They were clearly lost.
Fronto performed a quick count. Twelve ships were coming for the beach and would probably make it. Surprisingly, one of those was a small, fast warship, a liburnian that could quite reasonably have made it out to sea, but had decided to herd the vessels back to land like a sheepdog. Even as Fronto watched, the small, fast warship closed on two of the dithering vessels and there was a brief exchange, following which both began to race for the beach, jettisoning anything they could to lighten the vessels and speed them up. So, perhaps fourteen ships would make it back to the beach. Twenty or thirty were in the dangerous area and easy prey for Bibulus – it was hard to take a true count with the way they milled about in panic and passed one another. All had now decided that the beach was their only chance and were coming about and making for the coast, but it was too late. They would never make it. The only positive was that the numbers Fronto counted meant that more than fifty vessels must have made it out to sea.
Tense, he watched the pack of sea wolves bearing down on their prey. For good or ill, Bibulus had focused on the easy target. His entire fleet had set a tangential course that would bring them straight to that gaggle of ships that would never reach the beach in time. Fronto threw up a quick prayer that the enemy and the sea god would both show mercy, for those ships would all fall. Yet in doing so, they had bought time for the rest, a small flotilla returning to the beach and a larger fleet out in the dark sea, racing into the safety of night and open water.
Fronto kept his eyes on the ships as the enemy triremes closed. With a sinking, disgusted feeling, he saw golden flame beginning to spring up among the Pompeian fleet. A moment later fiery missiles began to arc through the air as the lead ships closed on the doomed vessels. The first shots fell short, but Bibulus knew what he was doing. Hi
s fleet began to fan out into a wide front, and bow-mounted artillery joined a myriad of archers launching burning matter at the Caesarian ships.
The arrows and bolts and jars of pitch began to strike timber, and instantly the beleaguered merchant ships caught fire. Fronto watched, sick, as men leapt from burning vessels into the water. Seemingly heedless of the danger they too faced from the flames, the lead ships of Bibulus’ fleet picked up their pace, racing into the doomed vessels at ramming speed. Smaller, flaming ships were smashed in two by the large military ones which continued to launch their missiles at the remaining vessels. Men in the water would be being battered by floundering hulls and smashed into by enemy warships in for the kill, and any sailor who’d jumped overboard and survived the immediate clash would inevitably die anyway. It was Januarius and the water was almost ice. No man could last long enough in that sea to make it to shore. Every soul on those thirty ships would die, either by fire, drowning, freezing or a deadly flaming iron point.
‘I will see Bibulus die for this,’ Caesar said quietly, and Fronto and the others nodded as one. Caesar was renowned for his clemency, but there were times when mercy had to be pushed aside in favour of justice. The Pompeian fleet could easily have captured those vessels and taken their crew. Even if they had no use for them, they could have scuttled them and saved the men. Instead, Bibulus had charged in with the clear intent to kill and destroy everything in his path. Did the man not remember that these too were Romans he was killing?
Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 3