Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  Galronus peered across the open ground. Perhaps three legions and a huge wing of heavy cavalry were now coming for them at speed. They held the slight edge in numbers, but the real deciding factor in the fight that loomed was discipline and morale. The Pompeians were moving in perfect concert, and they marched with determination. Conversely, the Caesarian force was now scattered throughout the woodland, moving in several directions at once, blowing conflicting calls and milling about. Even in a matter of heartbeats, Galronus knew what was coming. He watched the mood of the Fifth, Thirteenth and Ninth change in a trice from confusion to consternation, and then, inevitably, to panic.

  The legions of Tillius broke.

  Galronus recognised it in time to begin racing around the periphery. Reaching his own gathering forces, he pointed back beyond them. ‘Sound the retreat. Fall back as fast as you can. Get past the rampart and don’t wait for formation. Every man needs to be back along the river to the main camp as fast as they can.’

  Leaving the men to it, he weaved his way between milling, panicked soldiers and wide squat tree stumps until the spotted his second wing at the far side. Bellowing the same orders, he turned and began to move back towards the rampart himself. They had precious little time before the enemy reached them. The legions in the woods were still in chaos. Some of the men were managing to form into centuries in the mess, those with the better centurions, and some were now moving in an orderly retreat, but others were still panicking. Some were even moving in the wrong direction for either attack or retreat, hopelessly turned around in the mess. One thing was certain: no one was marching for the attack any more. They would be at the mercy of Pompey’s legions as soon as they got here.

  The cavalry were moving fast. With the advantage of not having been given conflicting orders and no signals having been issued, they were still moving as units and with confidence, though, despite that, they were moving in flight. By the time Galronus reached the dismantled rampart already much of his force had crossed, discarding the certainty of two beasts abreast and a slow pace for a steady trot and three or even four at a time.

  Legionaries were fleeing across the defences now, too, though few tried to negotiate the same path as the cavalry for fear of being trampled by the beasts. Galronus fell in with his men and crossed at speed. Back on the far side, he crossed the dry river bed and came to a halt on the far bank, turning to watch.

  Probably Fronto had been right. With the speed that Pompey’s reserves had responded, and the fact that there were likely still as many waiting that he could also commit if necessary, the chances were that this attack had always been doomed to fail. But even if Fronto had been wrong and Caesar’s plan had stood a chance, it had been undermined and ruined by the short-sightedness and idiocy of Tillius, and he and Murcus’ indecision when faced with the enemy.

  The army was in full rout now, and Galronus could not blame them. No force would have held in those circumstances, when even their commanders seemed dim and Hades-bent on mass suicide.

  The last of the cavalry crossed the rampart and, as ordered, immediately turned east and raced along the river bed back towards the fort. Behind them came the bulk of the Thirteenth and Fifth, and a cohort of the ever-battered Ninth. Full panic had set in, and the men were fleeing in disorder, their centurions unable to keep control, their senior officers lost in the press and less use than a lettuce javelin. Men were flooding through the breach, trying to move across the gaps the cavalry had used, but not limited to that. Others were crossing the gap the way they had initially come, clambering up and dropping into the ditch, but such was the huge press of men and the grand panic of the pursuing army that men were even hurling themselves from the unbroken parapet into the ditch, risking broken legs in the process. Indeed, bodies were beginning to pile up there swiftly as panicked legionaries snapped bones and collapsed, screaming as their tent mates crushed them underfoot in their own flight.

  It was not a fighting withdrawal.

  It was not even a retreat.

  It was a disaster, pure and simple.

  Heavy-hearted, he turned away from the flight of the legions and raced off after his cavalry. The siege was over, the battle lost. And if Caesar had not survived the fight in the camp, then the entire war was over, and they had lost.

  * * *

  ‘What’s that?’ Atenos said suddenly, cocking his head to try and catch a sound he thought he’d heard over the general din.

  ‘What’s what, Centurion?’ said a voice from behind in cracked, strained tones. Atenos and Salvius were already saluting as they turned to see Caesar clambering up the slope to their vantage point.

  ‘I thought I heard a call. One of ours.’

  ‘Thank the gods,’ Caesar murmured as he came to a halt next to them and leaned on the parapet. His gaze slid to the right, where there was still heavy fighting at the small camp. Heavier than ever, in fact. With the fresh knowledge that their relief was on the way, the Pompeians here had seemingly doubled in strength and confidence and were fighting back tenaciously, holding the invading force at the Decumana Gate. With heart-stopping speed, several legions were tromping towards the fort from the Pompeian lines, and beyond them the heavy Illyrian cavalry were massing for some kind of move. Without the support of Tillius and his column, all hope was lost.

  ‘I hear it now,’ Salvius Cursor said, straining to catch it, peering off to the west, into the thin woodland. ‘I think… I’m not sure, but I think there are men in the woods over there. And they’re sounding the advance.’

  ‘No,’ Atenos said with a frown. ‘That’s the retreat.’

  Caesar, his face grim as he leaned on the timbers, shook his head. ‘It’s both. Tillius, what have you done?’

  And even as they watched, they saw men emerge from the woods at a march, only to pause some fifty paces from the tree line, then turn and march back into the woods. Other figures emerged on their own, or in small groups, often at a run. Though they were too distant to make out details, the fact that they were overwhelmingly metallic and not red suggested a lack of shields. Had they thrown them away and run? Moments later there was nothing to be seen of them, as every last man had fled back into the woods. Three of the attacking Pompeian legions had peeled off and were marching determinedly in that direction, as were half the cavalry.

  ‘They’ve run,’ Salvius said in astonishment. ‘They’ve panicked and run.’

  ‘They would never have got to us anyway,’ Atenos noted. ‘The enemy reserves are between them and us.’

  ‘We’ll never know now that they’ve run away.’

  ‘Look to your men,’ Caesar said suddenly. ‘Panic spreads swifter than a forest fire.’

  And his words were borne out in mere moments. Other men of the Tenth, Ninth and Seventh on the wall tops had obviously observed the same disastrous events. Sounds of panicked dismay began to ring out around the fort.

  ‘We have to go, Caesar,’ Salvius said hurriedly.

  ‘Go?’

  ‘Retreat. Run. Flee. Or everyone here is dead. And the army cannot afford to lose you.’

  Atenos nodded, but Caesar simply frowned as though he failed entirely to grasp the notion. ‘I cannot run. I cannot lose this. If I lose this fight, I lose the siege. If I lose the siege, I lose Pompey and likely the whole war. I could even lose Rome. It all hinges on this. I have to be seen victorious. I sent his standards back to Rome in victory. I cannot lose. Rome will not countenance me losing.’

  Atenos sighed. ‘Caesar, we’ve lost. It’s just a matter of how many men we can save. We can always fight again, but only if we survive.

  ‘No,’ Caesar said defiantly, his voice oddly hollow. ‘I accepted Gergovia, but I will not accept this. I will not lose Dyrrachium to the man. Never.’

  The general turned and began to march determinedly off down the slope towards the centre of the camp, where his signallers were standing in a nervous knot. The praetorian guards were still with him as he went, but even they looked tense now.

&
nbsp; Salvius Cursor looked over the parapet. The enemy legions were here. In moments they would be claiming the ramparts, bursting through the gate. And then everyone here was a dead man.

  The soldiers of the beleaguered Caesarian legions were on the run. The panic had spread in moments, like the wildfire to which Caesar had likened it. Men were fleeing now, diving over the ramparts they had taken so recently and running for the perceived safety of their own camp. Many were being killed even as they tried to pull back.

  ‘Even you don’t want to stay for this fight?’ Atenos said.

  ‘I’m not stupid, Centurion,’ Salvius replied, and ducked as a pilum whipped through the air nearby. ‘The general?’

  ‘We’ve got to get him out of here.’

  The two officers turned and hurtled down the turf embankment without thought of the risk of falling, hearts in their mouths. The legions were running and Caesar, like some demented lunatic, was the only man in the whole fort standing his ground, grabbing at fleeing soldiers, haranguing them to stay and fight. As the two men ran towards him, they watched in horror as a standard bearer from the Seventh, a man who had distinguished himself at Volcatius’ camp, tried to run past his general. Caesar grasped at the man’s standard and screamed at the soldier to stand with him. The standard bearer shouted something inaudible, but which sounded desperate, and simply let go of the standard, running for his life.

  Caesar stood, wild-eyed, in the centre of the fort, clutching at the standard as though he were trying to throttle it. The last remnants of the defending Pompeians were slowly edging towards him, as though attacking Caesar might bring down some divine curse, but they were definitely moving on him, as were the fresh soldiers now pouring over the ramparts. Salvius and Atenos ran towards him.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Atenos said suddenly. The general was starting to shake wildly and his mouth was open, teeth gritted in a grimace as foamy saliva drooled out of the corners of his mouth. His right arm shot out, still holding the standard, which flailed and circled with his shaking.

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Salvius Cursor, ‘but we have to get him out of here.’

  Atenos nodded and bent low as they ran. The praetorians around the general looked more and more panicked, unsure what was wrong with their commander and what to do about the centurion who looked set to shoulder-barge him. Atenos hit the general like a blow to a punch-bag, sweeping him up and dropping him over a huge Gallic shoulder without slowing his pace, whimpering in pain at the rib that ached all the more with the effort. The general weighed surprisingly little, but he was hard to carry while he was shaking like this.

  With Pompeian legionaries in pursuit, they ran for the east gate where the legions had first entered the fort. The praetorians, relieved that at least something positive was happening, fell in defensively, making for the gate but simultaneously presenting a threat to anyone who might try and stop the general. Two of the guard fell to flying pila, but soon they outpaced the tired defenders, and the newly-arrived reserves seemed more intent on securing the fort than chasing what appeared to be three officers fleeing for their lives.

  Salvius Cursor watched the centurion running full pelt with the general thrashing about over his shoulder. If he’d been a man to believe too strongly in omens it would be hard not to see this as one.

  The battle was over.

  They had lost.

  Chapter 13

  The mood in Caesar’s command tent was sombre. The gathered officers stood waiting without the customary banter; all except Fronto, anyway, who sat to one side nursing his aching knee. The events of the previous day hung heavy over all, even those who had remained in other positions around the circumvallation and had had nothing to do with the unmitigated disaster in the south. The various units involved had been sent to positions around the siege lines for want of a better plan, and the hard fought south abandoned entirely. Everyone, officers and men alike, awaited the decision on the next move.

  Finally, the door opened, and Caesar swept in with his customary energy. Fronto could not help but be impressed. A matter of hours ago the general had been recovering from a fit and had been weak and drawn. Now, he was the same old Caesar again, as if nothing had happened. Or almost… He strode across to the table and stood behind it, Aulus Hirtius coming to a halt beside him in his accustomed place.

  ‘Gentlemen.’

  The officers greeted Caesar politely, though with a total lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Let us deal with the unpleasant part first, and swiftly,’ the general announced. ‘Hirtius?’

  The staff officer and secretary opened his wax ledger and peered myopically at the scratchings therein.

  ‘The confirmed dead number nine hundred and sixty, with almost as many again as yet unaccounted for. The critically wounded number four hundred and thirty two, and the walking wounded who will return to duty in due course two thousand eight hundred and five. Thus, our current total strength is now down by a little over five thousand men.’

  The leaden silence that greeted the figure said it all. Enough men to furnish a full strength legion. And all of them veterans. It was not a good number to hear.

  ‘Officers?’ Caesar prompted.

  ‘Four senior prefects: Tuticanus, Fleginas, Granius and Sacratavir. In total thirty two tribunes and centurions. I do not have the specific breakdown of those yet. And, on a dark note, twenty eight standards lost to the enemy.’

  There was a groan of dismay across the tent. Death and dishonour in huge quantities. This was starting to make that awful day at Gergovia look like a walk in the forum.

  Caesar nodded as though they meant little more than the results of a chariot race. ‘Pompey is being proclaimed imperator by his men. He was even given a laurel wreath by those exiled senators who follow him. He believes he has won.’

  ‘Why is he still sitting there then?’ Antonius grumbled, slapping a balled fist into an open palm.

  ‘Precisely because he thinks he has won,’ Caesar replied. ‘He believes we are beaten, and we are, and now he awaits my capitulation and, failing that, the chance to finish us off. We can no longer maintain the siege. Summer is here and we are well provisioned through forage, but with autumn coming, and then winter, we will not be able to maintain that position for long, while Pompey can. He knows that. The sad fact is that this siege is over and we must withdraw. He knows that too. So he is aware that unless we simply surrender, at some point we will be forced to leave our fortifications. When we do, he can chase us down and finish us. Waiting for us to run is the sensible option. It is what I would do. Why risk throwing men at our defences when he can simply wait for us to leave and then meet us in the open? As you all know, morale plays a large part in any engagement, and our army is currently at an all-time low, while Pompey’s rides high. If he meets us in open battle with a superior force at the moment, very likely we will be fleeing back to Rome with his cavalry snapping at our heels. And if that happens, we could lose Rome to him and become the exiles ourselves. Things appear bleak, I shall admit.’

  He straightened. ‘But what we must remember is that we have lost a battle, yet we are still here, and still strong. We should concentrate not on having lost at Dyrrachium, but on having succeeded in securing Italia and Spain, in having managed to bring an army here despite Pompey’s control of both land and sea, and the fact that the war is not over. Our men need their spirits lifted, and that will have to come from their officers. I look around this tent and all I see is morose, dark faces. I understand why, of course, but we cannot afford such maudlin wallowing. The men see you feeling beaten, and they feel beaten. Energy. Hope. Positivity. These are what I need to see in your faces, for then the men might feel more inclined to fight on. We need to sap the enemy’s current euphoria and rebuild our own morale if we are to face them again.’

  ‘What news of Scipio?’ Brutus said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. ‘Perhaps we can find something to announce there that might help?’

  Caesar nodded
slowly. ‘There is little encouraging there to tell the men, though neither has there been disaster. The latest dispatches from Calvinus arrived two days ago. It seems that there are two Pompeian forces in the region under Scipio and Favonius, and they and our own men under Calvinus and Longinus have been racing across Macedonia and Thessaly, trying to outmanoeuvre one another. As yet there have been a few skirmishes, but no battle to speak of. On the bright side, their travels have kept Scipio from our back. Not that it particularly matters now.’

  Brutus nodded.

  ‘We need to alter the entire scope and direction of our campaign, gentlemen,’ the general said suddenly. ‘Pinning Pompey at the coast has proved costly and difficult and, with yesterday’s events, continuing to do so is impossible. I believe that at this stage a pitched battle is inevitable. We will only resolve this campaign through direct force of arms in the field.’

  ‘Didn’t you just say that was exactly what Pompey wants?’ Antonius said.

  ‘It is. Pompey wants us to abandon the lines, which we all now know we must, and commit to battle with us as we leave. He will have the strong army with the high morale, and we will be overrun easily.’

  ‘Yet you’re saying that’s what we’re going to do?’

  Caesar smiled. ‘Not precisely, Antonius. We will meet him in the field, but not immediately. We need time to recover. To get the walking wounded back into their units, to heal the fractures in command,’ a black look suddenly cast across the tent to Tillius, who shrank back, ‘and to restore the morale of the men. Despite the numbers being in favour of Pompey we still have the better legions, and if they are in good form, I believe we can beat him.’

  Fronto rose, grunting at the pain in his knee. ‘But we will not have the luxury of time. The moment we leave here, Pompey will be on us.’

  ‘Then we must slip away like thieves in the night,’ Caesar replied. ‘If we achieve a good head start we can stay clear of Pompey. Our supplies have been gathered and kept with our forces throughout, and so we do not have to reply on gathering them before departure. We simply have to move. Pompey has been supplied throughout by his fleet, largely from Dyrrachium. He cannot afford to simply quit his camp and chase us, for he will lack supplies. It will take him precious time to gather everything he needs and follow on. By that time we can be moving. And if, for some reason, he has the bit between his teeth and decides to chase us down, then he will be ruining his own supply line and will put himself at a serious disadvantage in the long run.’