The idea of sailing ships along the coast to collect fresh water from known sources was good, they had all agreed upon that. And now that they knew the Thirty Seventh Legion waited just a short distance along the coast, Caesar had decided to combine his missions. He would take all the ships and just enough men to crew them. They would sail with the wind along the coast to where the legion waited, via one of the best local water sources. They would load up with fresh water and then move on to collect the legion and split them among all the ships. With the hugely increased quantity of vessels, the reduction in cargo weight would make them lighter and it would be easier to navigate their way into the troublesome winds. Moreover, with them they would take local sailors who knew the coast and the winds well and would be invaluable in bringing the ships back east.
Cassius had been left in charge of the Roman defences, with the queen doing her part. In fact, the anticipated friction between those two and the chance to miss it all was the only bright side of having been ordered to be part of the ships’ command crews.
Fronto turned, a little too sharply for his stomach, and peered out across the harbour. At the head of the fleet, Caesar’s flagship was already carving a path out to the open sea between the two forts controlled by loyal men. Fronto tried not to think about what the return journey could be like should the Pharos fort fall before then.
He continued to stand there, looking miserable, until the ship lurched suddenly out from the jetty and began its rolling, swaying journey out with the fleet.
Fronto threw up again.
* * *
It was mid-afternoon when they finally stopped. According to reports they were still some hours from the camping place of the Thirty Seventh, but here, the Aegyptian sailors said, was one of the better local sites for the acquisition of fresh water. The ships anchored a short way from the shore and sent small sloops out with barrels and sailors, finding the local water sources and filling the receptacles for return to Alexandria.
‘Are you sure you want to go?’
Fronto turned to Salvius Cursor. ‘For an opportunity to get off the ship, I would step into the jaws of Cerberus himself. Yes I want to go.’
And with that, still grey-faced, Fronto slipped from the rails and dropped into the small single-masted boat with its crew of half a dozen men and its cargo of four empty barrels. Galronus followed him down, leaving Salvius in command of the ship, and the two men settled in on the rough bench as the sailors began to row for land. Similar boats were in evidence like a swarm of ants all along the shore for a stretch of almost a mile, seeking the numerous seasonal wadis that carried plentiful fresh water in these winter months.
It was with a profound sense of relief that Fronto dropped from the boat onto the wet, giving sand of the shoreline. All around, other crews were beaching their vessels and unloading the barrels. He could see soldiers here and there among the sailors, but only rare and sporadically. Few men had come with the fleet, other than the sailors themselves, and most of those had stayed aboard the ships.
Two small villages stood on this stretch of coastline, and the fleet had more or less anchored between the two. Already, hopeful natives were rushing out with their local produce and trying to sell baskets and tunics and all manner of junk to the busy sailors, who waved them away, sweating and grunting as they carried the barrels inland towards the visible areas of vegetation that marked water sources.
Fronto and Galronus followed the half dozen men from their boat and stopped on a high sandy dune-ridge. Ahead, they could see a narrow and shallow valley running from the hinterland, with scrubby greenery along the edges. The watercourse changed as it reached the beach, no longer a defined stream, but rather a very shallow, wide fan of rivulets carving their way across the sand to the sea. No one could gather water there, and the six men carried their barrel over towards the greenery, where they could lower it into the flow and fill it, topping it up using the skins each man carried. They would only half fill it, despite the need for water, since carrying a full barrel of water would be beyond even six burly men.
The two officers sank to the high sandy ridge with a sigh of relief. Fronto gave Galronus an ironic smile as his friend offered him a swig from a skin containing part of the dwindling store of water from the city cistern. He took a small gulp and sighed as they watched the men at work. Other crews were at this stream now, while further groups gathered at other wadis awaiting their turn. Already a few had filled their first barrel and were swearing and groaning as they manhandled the heavy weight back to their boat, knowing this would be only the first of four trips.
‘I’ll be more comfortable when we’ve got the legion with us,’ Galronus said.
‘Ten years ago, stomping around Gaul and chasing the Helvetii, worrying about troublesome German kings, I would never have thought to hear a Gaul say such a thing.’
Galronus snorted. ‘I’m Belgae, of the Remi, not a Gaul, you cock. And some of us were allies from the start, you know.’
‘Only your tribe, if I remember correctly. I think every other tribe in the whole land fought us at one time or another. Your lot were our only permanent allies. But you know what I mean.’
‘I do. The world is becoming Roman. There is no room for tribes now. Tribe becomes region, regions form provinces, provinces make the republic. How long, I wonder, before Aegyptus is too important to allow them their freedom? Before Caesar finds a reason to march in here.’
Now it was Fronto’s turn to snort. ‘To an extent that’s what already happened. Don’t forget the Gabiniani have been here for years. But as long as they have pretty, scheming little queens who can play a consul like a musician on a harp, they’ll get exactly what they want.’
Galronus chuckled. ‘The general certainly has a…’
He tailed off into silence and Fronto frowned, turning to him.
‘A what? An eye for a shapely bosom? A desire to sow his seed among foreign royalty?’
But Galronus was staring off into the distance, brow knit tight.
‘What is it?’
‘Saw something. I think, anyway. Maybe I imagined it.’ He shook his head as though clearing a fog. ‘Yes, the general and women are…’
Again he fell silent for a moment, then spoke under his breath. ‘There is something.’
‘What?’
‘Movement inland. I saw shapes twice, up beyond the rise, in the distance.’
‘Probably more villagers trying to sell us new underwear.’
Galronus made an unconvinced grunting sound and rose to a crouch, hand coming round to shade his eyes from the afternoon sun. The seriousness of his friend had Fronto on the alert now, and he rose similarly. At first he could see nothing. Then, between distant scrubby bushes on the left high bank of the stream where their men were currently righting their first barrel to bring back, he saw a shape, briefly, passing from cover to cover.
‘That was a rider.’
Galronus nodded. ‘Horsemen. More than one, as well.’
‘If they’re just nomads or desert raiders, or even scouts from Arsinoë’s army, they’ll be too few to deal with this lot. Our men might just be sailors, and many unarmed, but there are hundreds of them along the beach.’
‘And if it’s a proper cavalry unit?’
‘Then we’re in the shit.’ Fronto peered into the sunshine, squinting. Another figure, mounted, briefly showed. It was possible he was the same one, but Fronto didn’t think so.
‘Did he look closer to you?’
‘I think they’re coming closer all the time.’
‘They might just be interested locals, coming for a look?’
‘And they might be Castor and Pollux on their divine steeds come to wish us good fortune,’ Galronus replied archly. ‘But I would wager they are Aegyptians from Arsinoë’s army.’
Fronto nodded distractedly. ‘There are more.’
‘More every heartbeat. I think trouble is coming.’
‘Galronus, get back to the boats. Find one
that’s near ready to go and row for the fleet at speed. Deliver the warning. I think all the boats will be coming back to the fleet in moments.
‘And you?’
‘I’m going to confirm our suspicions and get the men moving.’
‘Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘When do I ever…’ Fronto started, then broke off with a sheepish grin and pointed back towards the ships. Galronus nodded and rose to his feet, jogging away down the slope back towards the sea. Fronto went the other way, intercepting the men from his boat, struggling along with their barrel of water. ‘Forget about the rest. Get that to the boat and then push off for the ship.’
The men gave him a perplexed look but nodded and grunted their assent beneath their heavy load. Fronto frowned. ‘Can four of you carry that?’
In answer, two of the men let go and stepped away. There was a groan of strain from the remaining four and the barrel dipped alarmingly, but they fought it steady and raised it again.
‘Well done. Thank you, you four. Get to the boat and then the ship as fast as you can. You two, head along the beach in each direction. Tell every crew you find that Legate Fronto orders every unit back to their ship immediately, then get onto one yourselves.’
The men saluted and began to run, and Fronto stumbled off across the difficult terrain for the stream and the crews now filling their barrels or waiting patiently for their turn. ‘Finish up,’ he yelled at them. ‘Take what you have and get back to the boats. Enemy riders spotted.’
It was stretching the truth a little, but it had the desired effect nonetheless, men stopping what they were doing immediately despite their desire for fresh water. ‘Orderly and sensibly,’ Fronto reminded them. ‘Back to the boats and the ships, and take the barrels with you. Remember you’re soldiers.’
The men moved swiftly back down the beach, and Fronto left them to it, scrambling instead up the slope, grabbing the protruding branches of trees to help pull himself up, and cursing the effects of advancing age. Those days when they’d followed the Helvetii into Gaul, he’d have run up here in full armour, bellowing as he went. Now he was hauling himself up with difficulty, favouring his right knee in case the left gave way, and puffing and panting like an old man.
He reached the top and spent a long moment coughing and spitting into the sand, heaving in deep breaths. When he’d sufficiently recovered, he scanned the area, identifying the best viewpoint, a small cairn of stones standing on a low rise. Hurrying over, he clambered up them and stood on the top with difficulty, shading his eyes and looking this way and that.
There was no immediate sign of the riders, and it was his ears that identified trouble before his eyes. He turned and peered off to the northeast, squinting narrowly. The distinctive sounds of battle reached him from that direction and a moment later he could just make out the figures of the sailors fleeing from another similar wadi in that direction, scattering like the seeds from a dropped fruit, running for the boats, their barrels discarded.
Fronto closed his eyes. Damn it, but this was not good. When he opened them again, he saw exactly what he’d expected. Horsemen racing after the sailors, whooping guttural war cries. There were not vast numbers of the riders, but enough to put the sailors to flight, certainly, and they cut down the slowest runners before veering off and whooping with vicious delight some more.
As the desperate sailors hurtled towards the water, more and more riders swooped after them, cutting down the runners. The pursuit only faltered when sudden thuds and cracks announced that the men remaining on the ships had begun to man, load and release the bolt throwers mounted on the prows. The men were sailors, not artillerists, and the shots went wildly astray without much hope of causing any real damage, but their range made it clear that they could hit the riders, even if only by accident, at any time. The threat was enough and the horsemen suddenly broke off the pursuit, racing back to the men they had already cut down, hauling up those wounded sailors who still lived and throwing them over the backs of horses, and hacking the heads from those who did not.
Fronto closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, then scanned the beaches. Most of the men were almost to safety and many were still carrying their barrels. It was not an unmitigated disaster, at least, but they had been thwarted in gathering any more than perhaps a tenth of their water stock, and had lost a few dozen men in the process. Reasoning that there was little else he could now do, Fronto turned and stumbled with difficulty back down the slope, then began to pound across the sand, ignoring the ache in his knee, making for a small knot of boats that remained beached. As he ran, he saw one of the crews motioning each other to wait, and waving him on urgently.
He glanced to his right. The riders were far too far away to endanger him, but still he ran at full pelt, only slowing as his feet began to sink into damp sand. With no grace whatsoever he threw himself over the side of the boat and waved them into motion. They needed no urging and moments later they were rowing like mad for the ships.
Fronto lifted his face above the prow and watched the riders along the sand claiming their grisly prizes and their valuable captives, and thought for a moment he saw a flash of light from a reflection up on the bluff. It could be a signal. Most likely it was the chance reflection from a particularly shiny armour plate. Still, he couldn’t stop himself watching. It never repeated.
The journey back was swift and Fronto was the first to clamber aboard this new vessel, not the one he’d arrived on, but the ship that belonged to these particular sailors. It was a Greek-style vessel, and he read the eastern script on the bow with interest as he climbed past it.
Chimaera.
Interesting. Looking back and forth, he noted the crew with a shrewd eye. They were of a lighter, swarthier look than the locals, but darker and more olive-toned than Italian Romans. Better still, though, each man seemed to be armed, each bearing a short Greek blade at their belt, something that few of the crews could boast. Smiling at the men, he turned and hurried along the deck to the trierarch at the rear, who stood close to his mate at the steering oars.
‘Get us moving, Captain, and bring us close to Caesar’s flagship.’
The trierarch, wearing an unconvinced expression but with respect for the chain of command, saluted, and began giving out orders. Moments later they were turning, making for the command vessel. Fronto sighed with relief, rubbed his knee and gestured to the trierarch.
‘Sorry about this. You’re out of Crete at a guess?’
‘Rhodos, Legate. Welcome aboard the best ship in the fleet.’
‘I hope that’s true. I hate sailing.’
The trierarch grinned widely. ‘Then I’ll do my best not to go in circles too often, sir.’
Fronto laughed and then turned and watched Caesar’s ship as they approached. His attention was suddenly caught by a fresh commotion and he peered off to the right, northeast along the coast. Another of the ships was navigating the fleet swiftly, making for Caesar’s flagship the same as their own.
An odd, unpleasant premonition forming, he traced the line of that other ship’s course and tried to pick out something in the distance behind it. For a moment he wondered whether he was just seeing what he’d expected to because of his overactive imagination, but the shapes gradually coalesced. Ships. Another fleet. That second ship heading for Caesar carried the warning, just as that flashed reflection from the cavalry had carried a message to these new enemies.
The warning being carried to Caesar was probably unnecessary. Others had now seen the approaching shapes and the alarm was echoing from vessel to vessel. Fronto hurried to the fore rail and waited as they closed on the flagship. As they neared, he waved and a small knot of senior officers closed on the rail to face him.
‘What’s the plan?’ Fronto bellowed.
‘We cannot fight them,’ Caesar called back. ‘Even if we have more ships, they are crewed by few sailors and no marines. An engagement would be suicide. In addition, the afternoon is late and soon the sun will go down.
I have no intention of facing superior enemy ships in the dark.’
Fronto nodded. ‘So what’s the plan?’ he repeated, slightly more urgently.
‘Nepher here, my local guide, tells me that if the men row at full speed without pause, given the strong following wind, there is a promontory two to three hours away surrounded by dangerous sandbanks and submerged ridges. If we can make that and anchor at the coast overnight, the enemy will almost certainly avoid engaging us because of the dangers. We have enough knowledgeable locals aboard to help us get in close. That way we can wait out the night. The next morning we take the initiative and plough on to meet with the Thirty Seventh. Once we combine the fleets and have a full legion with us we can think about taking them on.’
Fronto shouted his understanding and agreement, silently biting down on his dismay at a potential three hours’ sail at full speed and then a night aboard ship among dangerous sandbanks. But if that was the rest of the Aegyptian fleet following them, and it was fully crewed, the alternative didn’t bear thinking about.
Orders were given and relayed from ship to ship, and moments later they were all turning and letting out the sails with a crack to billow in the wind, oars running out and beginning to dip in time with a frantic, energetic tune from the piper on each vessel.
The fleet started to move, racing west to perceived safety.
The one bonus of having been sick for a number of hours on the voyage here was that there was little left to come up for the rest of the journey, so Fronto found himself standing at the rail, retching a dry emptiness over the sea every now and then but with adequate time to worry about the enemy and the sandbanks rather than just his own digestion. After perhaps an hour he found himself finally taking a deep breath and looking up and about, since he had somewhat disappeared into himself on the journey. He was surprised at the amount of empty water he could see. Turning, he saw that most of the fleet was ahead. The Chimaera was falling slowly back, as if to play rear-guard.
Sands of Egypt Page 12