Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  Once more men died, though most ducked back into safety. Fronto sat silent, pondering the coming scenes, until finally the missile barrage halted at a series of calls and the legions bristled, preparing to move. He wondered idly how many of those pale faces who now reappeared on the parapet regretted their praetor’s decision to defy Caesar in favour of Pompey. Would any of them have the wherewithal to simply open the gates and let the army in? It would be defying their praetor, but only in favour of his own commander. If they did, perhaps Fronto could persuade the general not to unleash the legions in a rampage.

  No. It may have been Antonius’ suggestion, but it was Caesar’s will. The army had seen a gradual rise in spirit ever since their morale sank to an all-time low at Dyrrachium, but the mountain passes and the continuing depletion of rations and inability of wavering towns to support them fully were taking their toll. The troops needed a surge in spirit, and the freedom to loot a town that defied them would give them that boost. This was less about punishing Androsthenes and his people than continuing to improve the morale of the legions before they came to blows once more with Pompey.

  The signals were given. Fronto watched the army of Caesar begin to stomp implacably forwards, closing in on Gomphi like a noose. The lack in defending numbers was evident the moment the legions came within missile shot. A strong force in a besieged town would now be hurling bolts, stones, arrows and bullets out at the advancing lines. All that came from Gomphi were a few paltry shots. They were lacking in artillery and even in archers, seemingly.

  Given heart by the lack of swarming arrows, the legions gave a triumphant roar and at the centurions’ whistles broke into double time, jogging at the walls with the rattle and shush and clonk of arms and armour. Ahead, Fronto could see Salvius Cursor with over a thousand men breaking into an unrestrained charge. He could just picture the bloodlust painting the tribune’s face. This was what Salvius lived for. What had Pompey done that had so drawn his ire?

  Reasoning that the timing was right and that he was as safe as any man could be during a siege, Fronto waved his century of men forwards. The few arrows, spears and stones that could be raised in Gomphi continued to issue from the walls, but a small unit with an officer coming up behind the main force were of insufficient import to draw the attention of those men on the top, who continued to concentrate on the threat even now reaching the base of the walls.

  As the legions slowed to a halt, siege ladders began to rise, while other men hurled up ropes with grapples, each man determined to be over that wall and taking possession of whatever he could find. It was a hopeless situation for the defenders, and the conclusion was a given even at this stage. By dark the place would be naught but a charnel house.

  Veering off to the left, Fronto and his escort made for the nearest gatehouse. He could see men bearing the symbols of the Seventh not far off to his left, already climbing the walls. A glance to the right revealed men of the Tenth to be nearing the parapet, though spears lanced out, taking some of the lead men with a cry of agony and throwing them from their ladders to fall into the mass of their companions below. It came as no surprise when he caught sight of the tell-tale traditional officer’s uniform near the top. Salvius was among the lead men over the walls.

  His breath held tensely, Fronto came to a halt beside the gate, his men gathering around him. All of them had their faces upturned, confident that the gate would only be opened by allies, but awfully aware that a single dropped rock from above could smash a man’s head like an egg, or strike a helmet so hard it would drive the bronze bowl straight through hair, flesh and bone and into the brain.

  Sure enough, half a dozen missiles were dropped by panicked, opportunistic defenders, but the century of men were prepared enough that only one struck true, and that hit a man on his left shoulder, breaking the arm, but leaving him alive and grunting his pain. It seemed to take forever, though in truth it would have been less than a quarter of an hour, and finally Fronto and his century stepped back, hands gripping weapons tight when there came a deep clonk and rasping sound as the timber bar of the gate was removed, followed by metallic clanks as bolts were thrown back.

  The gate opened, a dozen men of the Tenth saluting their commander as the great timber leaves crawled open. There was a cry from outside and those men still waiting to cross the wall now made for the gate and an easy admittance. Fronto almost jumped as a figure from nightmare appeared inside, stepping out of the gate’s shadows, coated in blood and hair and filth, and it took moments to recognise Salvius Cursor’s shape within it, though Fronto realised he should have known instantly. It was far from the first time he had seen the tribune in such a condition, after all.

  The shambling gore-monster beckoned with a raised arm, and Fronto ran inside, willing his knee to hold out. Behind him came his century of men, then the masses of the Tenth and Seventh, desperately rushing to secure their cut of both victory and spoils.

  The chaos in Gomphi was evident the moment Fronto emerged into the small open square behind the gate. Despite the freedom the army were to be given once they’d taken the town, the centurions were doing an admirable job of keeping their men together until the place was fully secured. Fronto saw groups of legionaries stomping off up streets, bellowing their rage, centurions’ whistles echoing through the streets amid the noise. But despite their best intentions, men were taking the opportunity already to burst through doors as they passed, to butcher anyone without a legionary’s red tunic who came before them, to sweep up anything of value and even snap the fingers off bodies that bore a nice looking ring.

  And this was in the first moments of entry, when they were theoretically still fighting the enemy to a conclusion. The remaining Thessalians who had not been caught and butchered on the wall top were visible running one way or another in the streets, some with screams of defiance, blade in hand as they hurtled at the invader to their doom. Others were fleeing up the streets to the west, trying to escape the death and destruction.

  He watched, sickened, as an old man emerged from a side door, protecting a girl – possibly his granddaughter – only to receive a dreadful sword blow across the back. The man cried out and pushed the terrified girl away. She evaded a sword blow by only a hair’s breadth and fled into a narrow alley out of sight. The soldiers ignored her, concentrating on putting down the old man, and Fronto felt hollow at the sight. It would be nice to think the girl had been saved, but he knew the realities of a victorious army being given free rein. It would be a miracle if the girl survived the night.

  As Fronto, Salvius and the century accompanying them jogged off up the street, trying to ignore what was happening around them and concentrating on getting safely to the agora, he was surprised to see two legionaries emerge from a door, leading a man and a woman roped together. A passing optio paused beside them and harangued them, reminding them that no one could be spared on this campaign to guard slaves, and that there were no slave traders among the inevitable followers. To put an end to their brief argument, the optio ripped free his sword and stabbed both man and woman in the chest before moving on.

  They reached the agora before the bulk of the legions by simple dint of not pausing to kill and loot on the way. A small gathering of well-armed locals were forming up in the open market area, but Fronto’s gaze fell on what had to be the bouleuterion at the far side. The last major push for armed defence made to take on this small force of Romans that had appeared in the square. Fronto had to hand it to them, the city was lost, and most now were running for their lives, desperate to flee the inevitable, though they would likely meet men like Atenos and his soldiers coming the other way, yet here was a small force of hard men preparing to fight to the last.

  ‘Go,’ Salvius shouted at him, pointing at the door of the council chamber even as he and the bulk of the legionaries ran, bellowing, at the enemy. Eight men peeled off from that group and followed their legate as he made for the door.

  He burst through, sword in hand and ready for anything, b
ut even as his eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior, he realised the place was empty. It had been used, though, recently and seemingly for the very purpose Fronto had supposed. A table stood in the centre and the number of cups, half-drunk, close to the jar suggested a number of people in close session.

  ‘No one, sir,’ confirmed a legionary as the eight of them moved drapes and scoured the room.

  ‘Where did they go, then?’ Fronto hissed. Moments later, he emerged back into the sunlight, to see the last of those men at the centre of the square fighting a losing battle against the enraged Salvius Cursor and his soldiers. The legate ran across to them. Even as he identified what appeared to be the most senior of the defenders, the man took an agonising blow from Salvius, who broke his sword arm just above the elbow.

  ‘Wait.’

  The tribune had delivered two more blows, snarling his anger, before Fronto reached him and grasped his sword arm’s wrist even as he went for the killing blow. Salvius turned a furious look on him, but Fronto ignored it.

  ‘Where is Androsthenes?’ he asked the pained warrior. The man frowned for a moment, then shook his head.

  ‘Tell me,’ Fronto snapped, ‘and I’ll let you live.’

  That seemed to break through the man’s shell and he struggled for a moment before shrinking back and dropping his sword. ‘Onesilas’ shop,’ he grunted in thick Greek. Fronto had to concentrate to translate. It was so rare he heard, spoke or read Greek, despite having learned it in his youth like any good noble Roman. ‘The apothecary,’ the man went on, gesturing at the far end of the square.

  Fronto nodded. ‘You have my thanks.’

  He let go of Salvius’ wrist at last and turned with his eight men, making for the indicated shop. Behind him he heard a shriek and a gurgle, and spun to see the tribune withdrawing his blade from the warrior’s neck.

  ‘I gave him my word,’ Fronto snapped.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Salvius replied, with a challenge in his eyes as he wiped his sword rather fruitlessly on the dead man’s back. Mentally, Fronto added yet another incident to his catalogue of Salvius’ insolence, but decided to ignore it for the time being. There would be far worse perpetrated in the coming hours, and sometimes it was just not worth the effort of arguing with the tribune.

  The apothecary’s shop was not difficult to find, the sign hanging outside displaying a mortar and pestle. He turned to the eight legionaries who had accompanied him. ‘No killing unless we have to. I want Androsthenes alive, and anyone he might have with him.’

  At an affirmative nod from the soldiers, he reached out and carefully lifted the latch, pushing open the door, sword in hand. After all, the praetor of Thessaly might not want to go down without a fight. A moment later, Fronto was hit by the smell. His gorge rising even as his spirits sank, he stepped into the dim room, his eyesight adjusting once more.

  The source of the stench of gore and faeces was easy enough to spot. Bodies lay in a heap in the centre of the room. Gagging, Fronto hurried over to the window and threw open the shutters. It did little to alleviate the smell, though it did cast the grisly scene into stark illumination.

  Fronto had no idea what the praetor of Thessaly, looked like, though one of those in the room was almost certainly him. At a rough count, perhaps twenty corpses lay at the centre and each was garbed in the highest quality chiton, each held in place with exquisite pins or belts with ornate buckles. All had richly coiffured hair. And all had taken blades to themselves, some digging long cuts into their forearms, others preferring the throat. Whatever the case, all were very clearly dead, though they had not been for long, as was evidenced by the fact that blood was still flowing from wounds.

  ‘What in Minerva’s name,’ breathed one of the soldiers behind Fronto, who then gagged and coughed, his hand going to his scarf to pull it over his mouth and nose.

  ‘I suspect that Androsthenes and his cronies had more than a little idea what Caesar might do to them when he got his hands on them. They took their own lives as soon as they knew it was over. Idiots.’

  He turned and left the room, struggling to heave in cleansing air outside.

  Caesar had wanted to send a message, and that was most definitely what they’d done.

  Chapter 17

  Thessaly, July 48 BC

  Fronto rode in sullen silence. It had been bad enough witnessing the events that followed the fall of Gomphi, but he really wished he hadn’t been into the city the next morning as the army prepared to move out.

  After discovering the bodies in the apothecary’s shop, which were swiftly identified as the leading figures of Gomphi, both political and military, he had descended the street once more until he found the first tavern. There he had pushed his way inside, along with the eight men who had stayed with him. He had promised each and every one a healthy bonus if they stayed out of the rapine and looting and kept the place clear of other crazed and victorious legionaries. In short order they had removed the sickening remains of the folk hiding in the tavern and, presumably, its owner and staff. The place had already been stripped of obvious valuables and whatever jars of wine were visible on the tables, but in-depth looting had not yet begun, since there were easier pickings to be found across the city.

  Fronto had given his men orders to prevent other soldiers entering the bar, and had given them all a drink to ease their boredom, though only one, in case they felt compelled by wine to join in the chaos. He then sat in the gloomy tavern with a jug of wine, and a less important jug of water, and drank repeated toasts to the shades of all those he had known and lost, as well as to the poor folk of Gomphi. He had already lost the use of his legs when Galronus, ashen-faced, found him and without a word opened another jar of wine and joined in.

  He had no recollection of the journey back to his tent that night, though vague images of the most horrific things hovered on the edge of his consciousness and were almost certainly remnants of what he’d seen on the way back, rather than mere night terrors.

  The next morning, hardening himself, head pounding and having vomited copiously three times into the grass near his tent, he had gone back to the city. He felt he owed it to those ordinary folk of Gomphi whose only crime had been to be ruled by a man who defied Caesar. It had been sickening. The destruction of Gomphi had been total. This place, he knew, had something of a history of sieges. The great general Flamininus and his allies had taken Gomphi after a hard fight over a century ago, but they had simply captured and garrisoned it. Caesar’s army had done to Gomphi what they had done to much of Gaul over a decade of destruction: annihilation.

  Perhaps half the structures at best remained intact. Some parts of the city had been burned down and columns of smoke still twisted up into the sky here and there as visible reminders of what had happened here. The death toll had been total. The legions had visited utter carnage upon Gomphi and looted the place of every last item of worth. Here and there, as Fronto moved around, he spotted signs of acts far worse than simple killing, and tried not to think too hard on them. Gomphi had suffered appallingly.

  He could see the effects in the soldiers, too. Last night they had been savage and elated and in due course, as they joked and worked hard, morale improved once more, yet in the eyes of the men, every now and then, he could see a haunted shadow of guilt over what they had done, amid their jubilation.

  It was said that Caesar had taken captives, though Fronto had seen no evidence of such, so there could not have been many of them, and they were not folk of import for all those had died together by their own hands.

  The army moved on the next morning just after dawn, continuing southwest towards the rumour of Calenus and his cohorts. They had moved with speed at the general’s command, and Fronto had been surprised at that. He’d assumed, given the message Gomphi was meant to represent, that they would move slow enough for rumour to travel ahead of them. But no, the legions marched for Metropolis, which they reached at around noon.

  The city was smaller than the name suggested and sat
at the foot of a spur of land upon which clustered several ancient temples. A wall encircled the town and there was some evidence that once, a second wall had enclosed a larger area, now little more than rubble. Still, the inner wall was both intact and strong, and manned with guards along its circumference. As the officers at the head of the army, along with Ingenuus’ guard, approached the city, Caesar raised his hand to halt the column.

  ‘Another closed gate,’ Antonius said quietly.

  Fronto, still sullen, nodded. They had moved fast, and almost certainly word of Gomphi had not yet reached this other city, or at least, if it had, it was only the news that the place had fallen, and not of the true horror that had befallen it. Again, Fronto could not imagine why the general had moved fast enough to outpace word of his dreadful victory.

  ‘Do we repeat the procedure?’ Sulla murmured. ‘Deploy the artillery first?’

  Caesar shook his head. ‘All is in order, gentlemen. Remain calm and seated and watch the effects of our victory take hold.’

  Frowning in bafflement, the other officers remained in their saddles and watched. Metropolis glowered back at them, heavy walls, much better manned than those of Gomphi. There was no sign of the gate creaking open. After a long pause, a small detachment of legionaries appeared, jogging along the side of the column to reach the officers at the van. The scouts had peeled off ahead some time ago and were even now circling round the far side of Metropolis, checking the lie of the land.

  Fronto turned his lowered brow on the detachment of legionaries as they arrived, half a century of men under an optio. At a flicked hand from Caesar they moved on ahead, making for the nearest gate in the walls of Metropolis, Now, as they passed, Fronto realised there were civilians with them. Four of them, in fact. An old man, a couple and a young girl. He only caught sight of them from the back for a moment, and dredged his memory in the hope that the girl was the one he’d seen escape harm the previous night, but he simply couldn’t recall her face, and the chances of that being the case were infinitesimally small.