Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War

by S. J. A. Turney

  A smile spread slowly across Fronto’s face.

  ‘I might have an idea.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘When,’ Fronto said quietly, ‘is the only time Pompey has committed instantly and without consultation?’

  There was a mutter of uncertainty in the tent. ‘He hasn’t,’ Antonius said finally. ‘He hovered in the east when we arrived. He camped across the river and wouldn’t commit. He pushed the siege lines only when it suited him, and then he dallied in the north while he combined with Scipio and set up adequate supply lines.’

  ‘You have such a small memory for failure,’ Fronto chuckled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The only time Pompey has ever committed in an instant in a reaction was when we left Dyrrachium. You didn’t see because you were far ahead. Sulla probably didn’t see because he decided very helpfully to announce our departure with a fanfare and then legged it and left the Tenth to catch up.’

  The equine face of Sulla turned an unpleasant look on him, but Fronto ignored him. ‘The moment Pompey realised we were running and he was in danger of missing the chance to catch us and stab us in the back, he ran like a pox-ridden peasant to the nearest latrine. Sent his cavalry to catch us, with his army heartbeats behind. And he kept trying to stop us right up to the moment we outstretched his supply lines.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘When we decamped, then.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps if he thinks he will lose you again and you are heading south to join up with Calenus he might feel compelled to try and stop you?’

  Caesar nodded again, with a smile. ‘It would have to be sudden enough to make him panic. And it would have to be very swift. And he would have to already be comfortably lodged in a sense of security.’

  Sulla, still glaring at Fronto, put out his hand. ‘Overnight, level the defences. Use the ramparts to fill in the ditch. That way, when we make our move, we will be able to do so a full cohort at a time, and not be restricted by the gate.’

  ‘Good,’ Caesar smiled.

  Brutus rose. ‘He needs to be as settled into this stalemate as possible, so that he has stopped thinking of alternatives. Stay for several more days and keep presenting for battle as though nothing has changed.’

  Again Caesar nodded. ‘Good, because that will give me adequate time to put the finishing touches to my idea and run it by you all.’ He straightened. ‘Congratulations, gentlemen, and you have my thanks, not least Senator Galronus here, whose quick wits and bravery have won us the information with which we shall win the war.’

  He folded his arms. ‘Well done everyone. After a distressing six days of uncertainty and worry, I believe for the first time that we have the makings of a plan to come out of this in victory. No matter Pompey’s odds, we shall beat him, for grey matter beats iron any day.’

  And yet blood-red beats all, thought Fronto.

  Chapter 20

  Fronto stood at the north-west corner of the camp on the remaining full true stretch of rampart, straining to see into the distance. There was movement on the hill, but it was so difficult to tell what precisely was happening this far away. The scouts were still in position, as close as they dare come to Pompey’s lines, but they themselves were not visible from this distance either. He glanced over his shoulder.

  The army was almost ready. The striking of the camp had been carried out as slowly and obviously as possible. In order to make it most visible to enemy eyes they had not begun work until dawn began to streak the sky with gold. As soon as any hidden Pompeian watchers could identify what was happening, a couple of cohorts of auxiliaries left the camp with the baggage train and began to move across the bridge, heading along the road south as if making for Athens. Once they were clearly on the move, as the light level gradually rose, the legions began to take down their tents and stow them, gathering their full kit and arming up. Conveniently, apart from their furca pole that bore all the marching and living kit, their gear for the march was more or less the same as their gear for war.

  Now, all the tents were down and the legions beginning to mass in their ranks, ready to depart. In fact, the leading elements of the Eighth were even now filtering through the east gate and making for the road, forming up there. It would take precious time for any sizeable army to issue from the camp, of course, even using all the gates. And that was why they had utilised the hours of darkness in filling in the ditch to the south and east and flattening the rampart a little. The palisade remained in place, though the ropes that kept the posts tightly bound together had been removed and their bases, where they were driven into the ground, loosened. All was as ready as could be.

  Of course, Fronto had continued to espouse his belief that Pompey undoubtedly had eyes and ears in the camp, and that nothing done here was safe to assume a secret. But all that could be done to maintain security had been done. There were no unescorted visits to the river, and all patrols and posts were doubled in manpower and drawn from multiple units. The chances of anyone leaving Caesar’s camp and carrying word to Pompey had been drastically reduced. Fronto was still convinced that there would be enemy agents in the camp, but they would be impotent to do anything with the information they had, unable to leave. This was as good as it was going to get.

  Fronto’s eyes raked the enemy hill. Definite movement, and not just ordinary camp life. Pompey’s army was moving. They were starting to emerge from the gates, but as yet that could mean nothing more than that they were performing their usual daily deployment on the hillside facing Caesar, as they had done each day since both armies had made camp on the plain of Pharsalus. Fronto realised he was holding his breath with the tension and forced himself to relax.

  He watched for some time as the enemy cohorts settled into their lines before Pompey’s camp, willing them to do something more. Every now and then he would glance over his shoulder and see the legions of Caesar exiting the camp and forming up by the road. Was Pompey calling their bluff? Surely the old bastard wouldn’t let them just leave? He couldn’t afford to do that. There would be dissenting voices in his council calling for combat, surely? But if the enemy didn’t move soon, Caesar would have to make the decision whether to keep moving for real or return to camp and settle in while searching for a new gambit.

  Pompey’s legions formed up on the slope as per usual, and Fronto chewed on his lip.

  ‘Come on you bastard.’

  ‘He will,’ said a quiet voice next to him.

  Fronto turned to see Galronus join him and lean on the fence. ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘His deployment. He lines them up the same every day, but today it’s different.’

  Fronto squinted. ‘I know my eyesight’s not that good, but surely even you can’t see insignia from here?’

  The Remi laughed. ‘Hardly, but look to the cavalry. Thus far each day he has had the cavalry split into two wings flanking the infantry on both sides on the lower ground. This morning they’re concentrated to the north, on his left flank. Today he’s lined the army up with his horse ready to make a concerted push, and on the side of his forces where they will not get trapped against the river. He’s ready for battle this time.’

  ‘That’s fairly thin evidence,’ Fronto said, though he could certainly see the logic of it. ‘I believe you’re right, but we can’t do anything until he moves and we know he’s committing.’

  And that was the meat of the problem. The moment the Caesarian army turned and made it clear they were ready for battle and not, in fact, on the run, Pompey might realise he had been tricked into committing. At that point it would come down to a decision among their commanders. If Pompey’s side won, they could pull back to their camp. If not, they would fight anyway. But if they actually marched forth and made it perhaps a quarter of the way across the flat plain towards this place before it became clear that Caesar’s army was ready for them it would be too late. They would have to commit, for if they turned to retreat, Caesar’s forces would simply harry them as they ran, and the enemy would be battere
d into submission.

  ‘Best get to your cavalry, then,’ Fronto murmured.

  ‘And you to your cohorts,’ replied Galronus.

  Still, Fronto stood at the rampart, watching. Tense. The enemy were on the lower slope. Were they beginning to move? It was so damned hard to tell when they looked like a sea of ants on the brown-green slopes. His breath caught in his throat. There was movement, but it came elsewhere. His peripheral vision had picked up riders. Horsemen racing alone or in small groups for the Caesarian lines. The scouts and pickets were coming back, and they were coming at speed. That could mean only one thing.

  The tension suddenly spilling over into excitement, his eyes climbed from those racing figures back up to the hill. They were moving. They were definitely moving now. This was no daily show of strength, but a commitment to battle. Pompey was coming at last.

  Fronto had to shove aside a minor doubt over the fact that the force flooding down that slope was perhaps twice the size of their own. This fight would not be won on numbers alone. This was about outthinking Pompey and using his own tactics against him. Caesar had a plan. They just had to hope it would be enough.

  ‘Come on,’ Galronus said, and was suddenly moving. Even before Fronto turned and strode off after him the calls went up across the legions. Battle was about to be joined. Fronto’s men were at the rear of the army, the last to leave the camp, and it took him but moments to reach them. Six cohorts, numbering some two thousand men between them, drawn from every legion present. A second reserve. Caesar’s hidden knife in the back-alley fight to come.

  To some extent, Fronto regretted that he would not be in direct command of the Tenth in this, which promised to be the final battle, and the one that would see Caesar or Pompey total master of Rome. The honour of leading the Tenth would fall to Salvius Cursor, though Caesar himself would be stationed with his favoured legion, too, so at least hopefully the general’s presence would curb his tribune’s most dangerous instincts. Salvius, then and not Fronto, who would have a specific role to play and, if everything went according to plan, a critical one, too.

  Galronus paused as they reached the reserve command, and grasped Fronto’s hand. ‘Be safe,’ he said, then ‘and be lucky.’

  ‘You too. See you on the field.’

  He watched the Remi nobleman race off and leap up onto his horse as though born in the saddle. There was no better man to lead Caesar’s cavalry in the coming conflict. Volusenus was with him, too, along with Quadratus, each leading one component of the horse, but it would be Galronus who held the disparate groups of Germanic and Gallic horse together and gave the critical commands. And then there was that force of infantry

  Counting off in his head, Fronto decided that the time had come. By now Pompey’s army had to be at, or close to, the point of no return. Now they would be committed whatever the situation, and even the dissenters in his command could no longer turn around. Battle was inevitable.

  Another signal was given, and the already feeble palisade was pushed flat, a simple job since their bases had been loosened and the ropes removed. In heartbeats, what had been a solid set of ramparts became little more than a hummock around two entire sides of the camp circuit.

  Whistles blew and standards dipped, and Caesar’s army flooded out of the camp en-masse and with a swiftness that could not help but take the enemy by surprise. Crossing the ramparts and thundering over the fallen timbers and across the in-filled ditch, they raced at their centurions’ commands around the fort lines to the northwest, just beyond where Fronto had recently stood watching, and there fell into their lines. Fronto’s unit was the last to move, and he could imagine the consternation and arguments that would now be going on among the Pompeian officers. The more nervous or cautious among them would be shouting that Caesar had tricked them and demanding a return to the camp. Others would be worrying that they had committed to something they were not adequately prepared for but gritting their teeth and readying themselves. Whether they wished to press forwards or run back, there were two facts that would be inescapable for every mind among that force, officers and men.

  That they had not the time to retreat or to change their deployment. And that Caesar was not fleeing along the road to the south, where they could catch him from behind and cut his army into manageable chunks to deal with. Instead, Caesar was entirely prepared for them and his army was out and moving rather than being restricted in emerging from the camp.

  Fronto’s cohorts moved out, bearing no flags and no standards, the only concession to the usual system of command and operations a single musician with a buccina who stayed close to Fronto. He had only three calls memorised, as did each man in the reserve line, for they had to react only to their own commands and not those of any other unit in the lines.

  They crossed the low rampart with ease to the northeast, then raced as fast as they could around the edge, preparing to fall in at their allotted position. Being the last to emerge, the bulk of Caesar’s army was already settling into position. At the rear as he was, Fronto could not see the enemy, but he could see the deployment of their own forces in the traditional triplex acies formation.

  On the left, at the southern edge of the huge army lay a small force of auxiliary archers, slingers and spearmen, guarding the flank and bound on their left by the river. Beside them, the somewhat depleted Eighth and Ninth legions had been combined to form one solid, strong legion of veterans, and they, the auxilia and the powerful Seventh came under the command of Marcus Antonius, his main duty to press the attack on the left and deny Pompey any hope of collapsing that flank.

  At the centre of the formation Calvinus had overall command, with the Sixth, Fourteenth and more recently raised Twenty Seventh. This would be the heart of the press, where traditionally the worst of the fighting would occur, and despite having one of the youngest legions there, he could claim the most intact legions with full manpower. An army usually collapsed when a flank gave, but the centre was always critical. If the centre fell, the army would be broken up into smaller pieces, easier to destroy. Calvinus had to hold, and he had to press the enemy hard.

  On the right flank, the Tenth, Eleventh and Twelfth were commanded by Caesar himself, with his point of command at the rear of the Tenth. Three of the best legions ever to fall under Caesar’s command. Three of the best legions in Rome’s history entirely, in fact. Units that had fought the Belgae, had been at the Sabis, at Aduatuca, at Gergovia and Alesia, at Uxellodunum and Ilerda. Veterans and heroes all.

  Pompey’s army should quail at the very sight of them.

  Nine legions of veteran killers, flanked to the left by strong auxiliaries and the uncrossable river. Each legion was split up into three lines, the first two of which would press into the attack, while the third line would remain in position at the rear, ready to react to any failing along the front. A traditional formation and one that without doubt Pompey would be following. Fronto’s heart skipped a beat as he realised how widely spaced the legions were, not in the traditional tight order. The sheer difference in numbers between the two armies had forced Caesar to space his men adequately to match Pompey’s line, which would present a front almost two miles across.

  Then there was the right. Not the right flank of the infantry, but the counter to Pompey’s cavalry. Sweeping down from that hill, on the north side of Pompey’s vast force was a unit of horse some six thousand strong. And Galronus’ thousand cavalry sat at the Caesarian periphery, ready to meet them in dreadful six to one odds.

  Heart racing at the knowledge that on parchment this battle was almost certainly Pompey’s victory and that only Galronus’ intelligence, Caesar’s plan and the reactive ability of his officers could hope to carry the day, Fronto fell into his allotted position at the rear. Each commander would feel the pressure weighing down on their shoulders today, though the heaviest weights would definitely be on Galronus and Fronto.

  Horns blew, followed by a shrill chorus of whistles, and the army of Caesar began to march northe
ast, parallel to the river, to meet the forces of Pompey. As Fronto’s musician blew the call to advance and his cohorts marched off behind the army, Fronto reached into his scarf and produced the twin figures of Nemesis and Fortuna that hung around his neck. Nemesis, the Goddess of Vengeance. Her favour would allow Fronto all sorts of opportunities today, for among that enemy force were Pompey himself, Labienus, who had betrayed his oath and gone over to the enemy, and Ahenobarbus, that bastard who had commanded Massilia and escaped justice aboard the last ship to leave when the city fell. Lady of Vengeance let me have at least one of them, he thought as he kissed the figurine. And then there was Fortuna, whose favour would be very much sought throughout the army today – both armies – but whose presence would in particular be make or break for the right flank. He kissed Fortuna, and then tucked the figurines back into his tunic. Finally, as he fell into the easy pace of the march, he drew his sword.

  Across the lines the legions of Caesar began to chant and to slam their blades against the edges of their shields in time with their stomping feet, a rhythm to break the confidence of the finest of enemies. Not Fronto and his reserve, though. They marched in silence. They had a job to do.

  * * *

  Lucius Salvius Cursor twitched. He had been a tribune both junior and senior. He had led cohorts in battle and fought under Fronto for whom, despite his early misgivings, he had attained a grudging respect. And now in the role of praepositus in command of the Tenth, he was finally beginning to understand Fronto. How a man of action, who lived for the weight of the sword in his hand and that headstrong rush that only came with facing an enemy blade to blade, could survive standing at the rear, nominally directing things and taking no direct part, he could not understand. That, he saw, was why Fronto was always where he shouldn’t be, in the thick of it. And probably why he was so perpetually grumpy and miserable. Salvius would be at the front too, but unfortunately Caesar had chosen this legion for his command, and he sat astride his white horse in his scarlet general’s cloak but twenty paces behind Salvius. How could he find a way to actually fight without earning Caesar’s anger?