Sands of Egypt

by S. J. A. Turney

  Trying to keep the flow even he tipped his hands, both falls of water close together and in the sunlight. He peered at them intently as he tipped, and felt his spirits sink. He had been right. The water in his own flask had to be clean, else he would have been down in that room, writhing in a bed in his own sweat like the rest of them. His own water was clear as crystal. The flow from the jug he’d filled in the baths had a slight green/brown tint. When directly compared, the difference was clear.

  The water in the baths was tainted. They’d not noticed, as the colour was not dark enough to register unless one ran a direct comparison. Any man who’d noticed the tint would probably put it down to old pipes, or moss or some such. Now, though, the reason seemed clear.

  With a sigh, he strode back to the bathhouse and gestured to the optio in command of the guards there.

  ‘Cease distribution, soldier. No more of this water is to be given out.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It’s causing the illness that’s dropping our men like flies. Not another drop leaves these baths until I give the order. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And send someone to stop any barrels currently in transit. Let’s limit the damage as best we can.’

  The optio saluted, unhappily. ‘Yes, sir. Are you sure, sir?’

  Fronto nodded. ‘Sadly so.’

  With that he took his half full jug and his own flask and hurried back to the stairs and up into the palace. Through corridors and halls he passed until he reached the door guarded by Ingenuus’ praetorians, where he nodded his greeting and passed within.

  Caesar, Brutus, Cassius and Hirtius stood in the room, along with the queen, the general wearing a look of thunder.

  ‘…long overdue,’ Caesar finished before snapping his head round to Fronto. ‘I was busy cursing Calvinus. I cannot conduct a campaign blind, Fronto. Calvinus’ legions should be here by now, supporting us and granting us sufficient numbers to turn the tide and take control. Instead, not only are they somewhere unknown, but news from Syria seems to be sparse at best. All we hear is vague rumblings about trouble, with no details. We do not even know who is causing the trouble or whether it involves Calvinus, though that seems likely given the delay. I cannot command while blind.’

  Hissing irritably, the general stopped, brow creasing. ‘Where have you been, Fronto, and why are you carrying wine?’

  ‘Not wine, General. Water. And bad tidings.’

  He turned to Cleopatra, who stood sultry and quiet near a window. ‘Majesty, can you confirm something for me?’

  ‘Go ahead, Legate.’

  ‘What is the source of the water we have been consuming in the central palace?’

  The queen shrugged. ‘The cisterns, of course.’

  ‘Cisterns?’

  Cleopatra drummed her fingers on the table. ‘There are two cisterns in the palace that are filled by the main conduits. The conduits have been cut, as you know, but the cisterns were appropriately full at the time. Their contents are diminishing rapidly, of course, but while they are there, we utilise them.’

  Fronto nodded his miserable understanding.

  ‘That is why the illness that stalks our men has yet to claim a senior officer or any noble or palace staff. The main conduits were clean, and therefore so are the cisterns. As long as we drink from those diminishing supplies we are safe. The enemy cut those channels, though, and removed our main source.

  ‘But there is the lesser conduit they missed, down at the baths,’ Brutus said. ‘It’s a low flow, but enough to get by on with care.’

  ‘The wily enemy know that,’ Fronto said. ‘They did not miss the small flow. What they did was cut the others to ensure that we rely upon that one. Princess Arsinoë is as familiar with this palace as you, Majesty. She must have known about all four sources, and even if she did not, it would be an easy thing to establish. They didn’t miss the fourth channel, they just made it critical to us, and then poisoned it.’

  ‘What?’

  Fronto walked over to the window and lifted his two vessels, tipping them in the bright sunlight. ‘Palace cistern water left, nice and clear, conduit water right, slightly tainted.’

  The room’s occupants stared.

  ‘How have they poisoned it?’ Hirtius said, confused. ‘To apply a poison to a constant flow would require vast effort.’

  Fronto shook his head. ‘Some of our more clueless lads have been slaking their thirst from the Canopus Canal, and they’ve contracted the same illness, or at least something very similar. That suggests that what the enemy have actually done is to divert the contaminated river water into our drinking channel somewhere way upstream. Simple and brilliant. The channel poisons itself outside our reach and we have been blissfully unaware of that, guzzling the water. No wonder the sick beds multiply by the hour.’

  ‘Jove on high,’ Caesar breathed. ‘We must stop the channel.’

  ‘I’ve already put a hold on it. But our problems are only just beginning. This means that once our cisterns run dry, we are out of water. It seems that the illness of our men will probably pass with few fatalities, but without a fresh supply of water, our lifespan could be measured in mere days.’

  The queen gestured out of the window at the harbour. ‘There lies your answer.’

  ‘Majesty, sea water is poison in itself,’ Hirtius reminded her.

  The queen rolled her eyes. ‘You have free access to the sea and you still have ships in port. There are sources of clean water elsewhere on the coast, both east and west. Send out ships full of barrels and good men and source water from outside.’

  Fronto nodded. ‘That’s an idea.’

  But Brutus was shaking his head. ‘We are suffering strong easterlies at the moment. Ships will battle to move east along the coast, and when they head west, they will have trouble returning swiftly. It is a valid idea, but is reliant upon the winds. Many men will suffer from thirst before they can sufficiently fill our cisterns once more.’

  Cleopatra nodded her agreement. ‘This is true. It is a long-term solution, not a quick one.’

  Caesar tapped his lip thoughtfully. ‘Fronto, what did Pompey do when we cut his water at Dyrrachium?’

  Fronto thought back, brow creased. ‘From what I understand they dug wells.’

  ‘Quite. Water is usually to be found in coastal regions with sufficient work.’

  ‘Pompey’s wells were not over-healthy if I remember hearing correctly.’

  Caesar smiled. ‘Pompey’s wells were sunk into boggy lands. They were probably no better than the water Princess Arsinoë is sending us. Here, however, the water to be found underground is clear and safe, as is evidenced by several wells in the city. The men will have to dig for it, but the result should keep us going, especially added to any shiploads we can secure.’

  ‘Good,’ Fronto nodded. ‘Can I make another suggestion? The soldiers are becoming panicky. The situation is getting to them. It is always better for the men to hear things from their commander, though. Visit your men, Caesar, and encourage them. Tell them the plan and explain it all.’

  ‘And open up the palace cisterns to them, too,’ Cassius added, earning a disapproving look from both consul and queen.

  ‘There is precious little there, Cassius,’ Caesar reminded him.

  ‘But the men have none, Caesar. Put the officers and civilians in the same boat as the men. Let everyone share the peril, and then the troops will appreciate the value of their commanders. Better that than risk trouble from angry men who watch their superiors drinking clear water while they themselves die of thirst.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘Of course. The water from the palace will be rationed among all. Ships will be dispatched along the coast to secure supplies at whatever pace they can manage, and I shall personally exhort the men to dig wells. Thus will be confound the enemy.’

  * * *

  The first well bore fruit late that night. The men had been digging throughout the afternoon and evening, and even with Caesar’
s constant encouragement spirits had begun to flag once more. The exercise had seemed pointless and doomed, and the men were wearing themselves out, worsening their thirst with the work, sweating and complaining, digging and worrying.

  Then, as the moon rose into the sky, a contubernium of the Sixth down near the Diabathra heard their pick hit with a splash instead of a crack. Hungrily, excitedly, the men worked feverishly and managed swiftly to open a well almost two feet across and eight feet down into the hard ground. The water gradually seeped in, filling the bottom.

  Before they drank, just in case, their officer brought a sample to the palace, where it was compared with both the remnants from the cistern and the tainted water from the baths. To the relief of all, it was pronounced clean.

  It was actually brackish, a little dirty and tasted uncomfortably salty, but it was not diseased, and while a little unpleasant, it was like the gods’ own nectar to the thirsty men of Caesar’s army. Word of the well’s success spread and work redoubled across the redoubt. By the dawn four wells were yielding water.

  In truth, it was far from enough, and twice as many wells had produced nothing, but even a small level of success felt like the greatest victory to the men, and they were heartened sufficiently that they continued to dig more and more wells. That morning two ships left full of empty barrels, hopeful soldiers, and a few locals from the palace with good geographical knowledge, one heading east and one west.

  * * *

  The east winds continued to blow, and no one expected to see those two vessels for days, which was why it came as a surprise when a ship was heralded as approaching that evening.

  Fronto, along with the other officers, gathered in the hall, waiting for Caesar. Once the general put in an appearance, they left the palace and hurried down the steps towards the Palace Harbour. All around, soldiers were cheering their general as men sipped precious water from canteens filled from the wells. More were being opened up constantly, and it would take hundreds of them to supply sufficient water, but even these small quantities were deliciously welcome.

  ‘Can it be a water ship?’ Fronto muttered as they hurried towards the dock, praetorian soldiers clattering along to either side.

  Brutus shook his head. ‘No. A vessel the size of the ones we sent will be slow and heavy, especially full of water. Even under full oars it will take some time.’

  Fronto nodded, fretting. If that was the case, then this ship had to be small and light, almost empty in fact, to successfully battle the coastal easterly. Who in Hades was it?’

  They arrived on the harbour side just as the vessel cut between the arms of the harbour moles, slicing its way through the calm waters towards the dock. Relief and excitement began to wash through the assembled officers.

  It was a Roman ship.

  Barring the farfetched notion that it had come from Africa, then it was almost certainly an ally.

  It was a liburnian, and without the usual ram, defences and other accoutrements. A courier or scout vessel. Small and fast, one of the swiftest ships to be found in the Roman fleet, and the perfect vessel to strike against the heavy easterly wind. Fronto watched, breath almost held, as the ship slid towards them, and gradually more details became discernible. It bore a full crew of oarsmen, and they were professional, dragging their vessel through the water at a tremendous pace, the steersman equally good, guiding it into place at one of the nearest free jetties.

  It flew Roman pennants and its sail was plain white. Best of all was the sight of a small unit of legionaries surrounding an officer in gleaming bronze and a man with a small vexillum flag. The excitement continued to build as it closed, and even Fronto felt his usual pessimism slipping away to be replaced with unaccustomed hope.

  Still, they were in no position to take things for granted, and even as the sailors threw out lines, Ingenuus sent a dozen of his best guards to the near end of the jetty, where they formed up under a decurion, just in case there was something underhand going on.

  That decurion strode forwards as the ramp was run out and the small party descended, led by the gleaming officer. There was a brief conversation and what little tension remained in Fronto ebbed as the praetorian saluted, returned to his men and then reorganised them to line the jetty at either side like an honour guard.

  Fronto could feel the expectation among the officers rising, and all around the harbour now, soldiers who had been hard at work, or digging new wells, or simply standing guard, hurried to the nearest viewpoint to look over at this new arrival.

  Without the need for a command, every officer around Caesar straightened, adjusting their uniform and moving into position flanking the general.

  The officer marched forwards across the dock, his men at his back, along with the praetorians, and stopped ten paces from Caesar, bowing from the waist. Fronto tried to identify the vexillum behind the man, but with the combination of salty air and insufficient breeze, it sagged lifeless and it was difficult to make out the legend upon it. Along with the rest of the officers, he turned his attention to the man. He wore the uniform of a narrow-stripe tribune, still awfully young and fresh.

  ‘I bring greetings,’ the officer intoned, ‘to the consul and general Gaius Julius Caesar from his loyal legatus and governor of Syria, Gnaeus Domitius Calvinus. My name is Marcus Lucretius Fidus, and I have the honour of being a tribune in service of Uttedius Pollio, commander of the Thirty Seventh Legion.’

  ‘Well met indeed, Lucretius Fidus,’ Caesar smiled. ‘What of your legion? We have eagerly awaited their arrival, and that of their sister legion from Syria.’

  The young tribune, straight backed and formal, cleared his throat. ‘Uttedius Pollio sends his apologies for not attending in person. Our ships made landfall some way along the coast, and the current unfavourable winds make reaching the city difficult at the least. It may take some time to battle the winds, and our senior trierarch is of the opinion that the legion will be trapped in place until the weather changes. We put ashore but a little scouting suggested sizeable enemy forces in the area, and with the lack of geographical knowledge, the legatus thought it wise to remain with the ships and wait for a westerly, rather than risk falling foul of unknown forces and being separated from yourselves by the enemy.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘He is wise. Yes, better a few days delay and put to port here than risk cutting across land and meeting the enemy army unexpectedly. And what news of your sister legion?’

  A look of faint unease passed across Lucretius. ‘I cannot say anything of the Thirty Sixth, Consul, other than that they had not left when we did. Their objective was to travel by land, while we embarked upon the ships, but the date of their departure had not been confirmed, as the governor was unhappy committing both legions to travel until he was more certain of the local situation.’

  Caesar took a step forwards. ‘I have heard vague rumour of troubles. Tell me.’

  The tribune frowned as though it should be common knowledge.

  ‘King Pharnaces of Bosporus, Consul? He invaded Pontus in the autumn, taking advantage of the current rifts in republican control. Domitius Calvinus has demanded that the king withdraw, but Pharnaces is defiant. Both gather forces and a military conflict appears inevitable, or at least it did when we last heard news at Cyprus.’

  Caesar fretted. ‘Then we cannot be certain the other legion is even coming. And if such troubles have arisen in Pontus, drawing men from Syria, then we cannot be sure upon how much support we can call from the east. I had hoped for reinforcements from Asia under Mithridates of Pergamon, though he may now have been drawn into local conflict instead. I fear that our numbers are not fated to grow to the figure upon which we had pinned our hopes.’

  Cassius coughed meaningfully. ‘With respect, Caesar, even the one legion will more than double our numbers. With them we do not need to fear easy defeat. The Thirty Seventh represents a chance of victory.’

  ‘And increased thirst,’ Fronto said suddenly, drawing all gazes. He shrugged, embarrassed at hav
ing spoken aloud what he had intended only to think. Sighing, he continued. ‘Simply, we do not have sufficient water for our current force. More than doubling that number will only more than double the problem. I think we may need to step up the plans to bring in water from along the coast, Caesar.’

  The general nodded. ‘That concern is noted, Fronto. But for now let us rejoice. After so many days of uncertainty, finally our brothers have arrived.’

  Chapter Eight

  Alexandria Palace Harbour, 11th December 48 BC

  Fronto stood at the ship’s rail looking utterly miserable, face a greeny-grey.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you’re a mine of unexpected ideas,’ Salvius Cursor said, ‘and Caesar needs that at the moment.’

  Galronus shook his head. ‘That’s not it. Caesar thinks he’s lucky. It’s like carrying a phallus carving to rub.’

  ‘In fact…’ began Salvius, but Fronto snapped his angry face around.

  ‘One hint of a comment about me being a giant knob and you’ll be in the water looking for your teeth, Salvius.’

  The tribune gave a malicious grin. ‘In the water? The swirling, ebbing, eddying, flowing water?’

  Fronto threw him a vicious glare and then gulped, holding down his food with difficulty as the ship wallowed this way and that.

  ‘Everyone’s aboard,’ Salvius announced, pointing at the boarding ramp.

  The sounds of departure echoed across the deck as the ship made ready to put to sea. Fronto’s gaze rose from the horrible slapping waves and to the city. It was dangerous, taking out the entire fleet and leaving the garrison cut off once more, but Caesar had decided to take the gamble.