Sands of Egypt

by S. J. A. Turney

  However they had done it, they had clearly used the bridge to bring a few ships in and position them along the southern shore of Pharos Island, blocking the main landing spots that were precisely the Romans’ current target. Even now an Aegyptian warship was halfway through the arched opening, ready to engage the Roman flotilla.

  ‘Bastards.’

  The trierarch’s expression suggested he shared the opinion.

  ‘What’s your order sir?’ the man demanded, an edge of desperation in his voice.

  Fronto felt a moment of uncertainty. The plan had been a simple one, and while he was perfectly at home commanding a legion in the field, ships were not his forte by a long shot. One thing was certain: if it came to naval combat, those big Aegyptian warships might have their work cut out against Caesar’s navy, but that navy was on the other side of the island, and all Fronto had were small-to-medium-sized transport vessels, not one of which stood a chance against the bigger Ptolemaic triremes. They couldn’t stop there. And there were few other places a ship could properly land to disembark a force of infantry.

  He chewed his lip, eyes raking the coastline. They would be there in perhaps a hundred heartbeats now, and the entire plan had gone to shit before their very eyes.

  His gaze fell on an area of the island further along the coast westwards, towards the Heptastadion. There grass and orchards came down to the waterside. It was not a huge length of coast, but enough to land perhaps two ships at a time, and in open ground. That solved the first problem that had leapt to mind.

  ‘Signal the cavalry ships. Send them west to land on that grassy slope.’

  As the man did so, his musician blasting from his horn and pointing, Fronto nodded to himself. That at least sorted the cavalry, and they would be in their element in such open ground. There they could race around and cause huge amounts of trouble without being hemmed in by buildings and streets. Galronus would make the enemy sweat there. But that didn’t solve the problem for anyone else. It would take precious time to land the cavalry there, and if the infantry ships all queued up they would soon become prime targets for the enemy warships. Moreover, the time they took landing would give the enemy more opportunity to react and prepare, negating everything they were trying to do.

  ‘Captain,’ he said in a tone more decisive than he felt, ‘I think it’s time the men got their feet wet.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘There are no places to comfortably land a ship, but I remember when we landed in Britannia once. We stopped as we hit the beach underwater, all the ships grinding to a halt, and the men had to jump down into the waves and run for the beach. My own Tenth Legion. We’re just going to have to do that again.’

  ‘Sir, this is not a sandy beach we can run the ships aground on. It’s shingle and rocks that break or deny ships, and difficult, rocky shoreline. You can’t do that here.’

  Fronto grinned at him. ‘I hate being told I can’t do things. Makes me want to do them all the more.’

  ‘You’ll wreck ships, sir.’

  ‘Then you’ll just have to be careful. See directly ahead, just a few paces east of that dock we were headed for?’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘Precisely. It’s just a few rocks at the bottom of a grey wall.’

  The trierarch peered ahead. ‘That sir? I think it would be generous even calling that coast.’

  ‘Yes. Land there. A set of steps lies just off to the right. We can get the men to them. Send whatever signals you need to for the fleet. Just tell them to land wherever they can find room.’

  The trierarch looked immensely troubled, but he did so regardless, watching the rocky coast ahead nervously. Leaving the other ships to land as best they could, Fronto peered at their own landing point. He had six centuries in this wide merchant vessel, all good men and well armed. If they could get close enough to that rock for men to leap ashore, they should be able to make that set of steps that led up into the town. From there, they could begin to take control of streets and blocks. It was tricky, but possible. His eyes drifted up to the rooftops. The enemy were still manning many of those places, giving them good vantage points. They would be ready to defend their positions, for sure, and they would have an advantage over the men on the ground below.

  He turned to the men standing in the ship behind him.

  ‘You’re about to earn your pay, men. The enemy have denied us a good landing place, so we’re going to try something stupid. We’re going to get as close as we can to those rocks ahead and then jump ashore. I want you all to leap like horses. Anyone who misses will be in the water in armour, and we have no idea how deep it is. You understand?’

  The men nodded nervously, a chorus of subdued affirmatives.

  ‘It gets better from there. We have to funnel up a narrow staircase between two buildings with Aegyptians on top. You can bet money they’ll drop things on you, so the moment you land, it’s shields up and make a roof. Don’t lower that roof until you’re out of danger of falling objects, or whatever’s on the ground in front is worse. Aemilianus’ century, as soon as you find access left and right, I want half your men going each way. You lead one, your optio the other. Get into the buildings and up top faster than a rat in an aqueduct and neutralise the threats on the rooftops. The rest move and fan out. Once we have a good perimeter, we hold until other units meet up with us and then we move forwards. Everyone got that?’

  Another subdued affirmative.

  ‘And just to maybe take the edge off your nerves, I’ll double the night’s wine ration for any man who bloodies his blade on an enemy today.’

  This raised more interest.

  He noted the faces before him, and he couldn’t really blame them their nerves. Taking the houses and streets was hard enough, especially while natives were trying to cave in your skull from above, but the thing that had every man twitching was the landing itself. Fronto turned to look ahead once more. It was going to be trouble. There would be losses, and that would damage morale before any true action.

  He sighed, knowing exactly what he had to do. Like all the best Roman commanders, Caesar included, he knew the value of an officer sharing his men’s peril. Caesar had stood in the shield wall against the Belgae, in among his men, and even now he personally led the advance from the fort, where he would be brandishing his sword and would undoubtedly find a way to plunge it into an Aegyptian in front of his men.

  He eyed the rock that was now horribly close. It was probably a monumentally stupid idea. Even the oldest legionary in this ship was a decade younger than he. Lucilia would crucify him if she had even an inkling of what he intended. Thank the gods her and the others were safe off in Hispania.

  He was too old for this kind of foolishness, and he knew it.

  But times demanded foolishness regardless.

  The ship closed. All along the coast transports were making for similar places: dangerous and impractical landing spots, which had the only advantage of being somewhere the Aegyptians had not considered worth defending. He couldn’t see the cavalry vessels off to the west now, and had to hope they were doing well.

  He peered down, then felt the bile rise as he watched the undulating waves. The harbour here was of dark water and even he, a sea-hater, knew that meant it was still deep. If the seabed rose in a slope here it should already be visible beneath the surface. It wasn’t, which meant that there would be no slope. Just deep water and rocks. He swallowed nervously, trying not to show it to the men. His fingers went to the figurine of Fortuna hanging on the thong beneath his scarf, and he sent her a brief prayer that he make it to land and that his ragged body, and in particular his knee, see him through it all.

  The ship closed, and he heard the trierarch praying fervently. At the last moment, the steersman heaved his oars over with the aid of another burly sailor as the oarsmen withdrew their poles, sending the ship into a sideways drift towards the rocks.

  ‘Now is the time to pray there are no submerged rocks,’ the trierarch yelled at him, wild
-eyed.

  ‘Hold on tight,’ Fronto shouted across the ship, the men grabbing whatever they could, including each other.

  The vessel hit the rocky shore side-on and none-too-gently. Men all across the deck fell and floundered, shouting in shock or pain as they were thrown about. There was a crash and the horrible straining ligneous sound of tortured wood. Fronto heard a crack, and saw the trierarch begin to panic.

  ‘Everyone ashore,’ Fronto shouted, biting down on his lip so that his next prayer to Fortuna came out muffled as he clambered up to the rail, shoulders hurting from holding tight during the collision.

  He went for it straight away. No time to panic. Do it and hope.

  He launched from the rail and hit the sloping rocks that were perhaps a foot higher than the ship. He made it, just, feet skittering wildly. It was then he remembered just how bloody awful hobnailed boots were on wet stone, as his left foot slipped, his leg flying out from under him. He swayed for a dangerous moment, about to topple back into either the boat or the water, and then instinctively threw his weight forward as Masgava had once taught him.

  In a heartbeat he was face down on the rock. Behind him he heard the shouts of gods’ names and various curses as the rest of the men began to jump across. Scrambling upright, Fronto managed to pull himself across the rock to the base of the grey wall, where he turned to watch his men.

  They were leaping across the gap with what appeared to be enthusiasm until he realised it was actually increasing desperation. A hidden rock had indeed holed the ship, and already it was noticeably lower in the water. The men were not desperate to be on land, but they were desperate to be off the ship. Fronto didn’t care. The end result would be the same.

  He hardened his heart at the sight of men here and there slipping with a shriek and disappearing into the water between the wet rock and the sinking ship. They were done for and there was nothing he could do about it. Some of the lucky ones fell back into the ship and were afforded a second chance.

  In fifty heartbeats most of his men were on the rock, shields held over their heads, moving close together to lock the boards in and make a more solid roof. Already Fronto could hear rocks and tiles and bricks thudding onto the boards from above. He looked down with dismay. The ship was already close to the waterline and the rock was now way too high to jump across. A few of the stronger, more lithe, men threw away their shields and leapt, grabbing the rock with desperate fingers, pulling themselves up onto land.

  Sailors were now hurling themselves into the sea. Unencumbered by armour, they could safely swim the waters of the harbour, and would hopefully be able to make their way to somewhere safe to wait out the fight. Following their example, the legionaries still in the ship, who now had no hope of making the rock, instead began to strip off their armour and, down to just tunics and boots, joined the sailors in swimming to safety.

  In all, surprisingly few had perished in the landing, though at least a score of men had been forced to disarm and swim elsewhere. A quick estimated headcount suggested that he still had five centuries of men, which was more than he had any right to expect after such madness.

  A cry of pain reminded him that they were still in danger, as a heavy tile punched its way between the raised shields and crippled a man.

  ‘On,’ Fronto bellowed. ‘Up the stair. Form line and move forwards. Aemilianus, look to the doorways.’

  Taking a place somewhere in the middle and thanking the men to either side for the protection of their raised shields, he joined the centuries as they moved across the treacherous, slippery rock, men constantly sliding around and falling out of line, until they finally reached the rough staircase. This rocky shelf was probably used by local fishermen, the stair their access from the streets.

  He was more grateful than he could have believed when his boot fell upon the solid and flat step. His men were chanting an old marching song to keep up their spirits as a constant barrage of rubble struck the shields above. Here and there men cried out as lucky shots managed to penetrate the shield roof and wound the men beneath, but they were holding off the bulk of it. He heard the shouts of the centurion and his optio as their men located doors into the flanking buildings and entered, charging through rooms and clattering up stairways.

  They moved forwards at an inexorable but slow pace, a solid mass of men with a roof of linden boards from wall to wall, and covering more than a hundred paces of alleyway. It was only as someone ahead shouted a warning of enemy soldiers that Fronto realised that the thuds from the rain of masonry had thinned out and were even now still tailing off. Aemilianus and his men must have secured the roofs to either side.

  ‘Shields down,’ he shouted, hoping he wasn’t being dangerously premature with the order. Odd pieces of stone still fell, but they were few and far between, and even now he could see legionaries atop the roofs, shouting encouragement to their fellows in the street below. What Fronto would have given at that moment for a couple of dozen Cretan archers to send up to the roofs. Still, he had done what he could with the resources at his disposal. Right now he had to create a perimeter until other men joined them. The entire force suddenly came to a stop, presumably at some unheard command from the front.

  ‘Let me through,’ he shouted, pushing his way between the men, ‘coming forwards.’

  In moments he was elbowing and shoving his way to the front in the press, men letting him past as best they could in the tight confines of the narrow street. Finally, with some difficulty, he saw the front line three men ahead and latched on to a centurion. Pushing his way forwards, he dredged his memory, finally beginning to comprehend why his grandfather had insisted on moving around with a nomenclator at his shoulder, to remind him who everyone was as he went about his daily business.

  ‘Centurion Stallius?’ he hazarded.

  To his relief the man turned. Soldiers always liked you to remember their names. It made you more popular and your commands more palatable. He congratulated himself on this feat of memory since the Thirty Seventh had only been in Aegyptus a matter of days.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What’s the situation?’

  As he neared the front, he could make out enough ahead to realise that they were at a crossroads. Stallius pointed off down the three visible streets. ‘I think we’re about to be humped like a pretty sheep in a field of rams, sir.’

  Fronto peered off ahead and found himself agreeing with the coarse appraisal. Down the road to the right he could see a barricade of timbers and junk with figures in white visible above and behind it. To the left there was no one for some distance, but some way off he could see, and hear, a unit of native spearmen advancing, a wall of bronze, white linen and colourful shields, spears held forth like a mobile hedge of deadly spikes. Directly ahead, a smaller Aegyptian unit of heavily-armed swordsmen were advancing, much closer but with careful slowness.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Quite, sir.’

  Unforgiving sea behind, spears to the left, swords forward and a defence to the right. Not much to choose from. ‘Hopefully other landing units will join us shortly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it sir. That street we came up curves west. We’ve come inland and further away from other landing places. They’ll be on the other side of that barricade.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Oratorically put, sir.’

  Fronto flashed the man a quick irritated look. ‘Well, the barricade shouldn’t advance, so let’s hold here until help arrives. Commit half the men to the left and half forward. Any men who still have pila with them should go left to help counter the spears. Let’s see how long we can hold.’

  ‘At least we’ll have some help, sir,’ the centurion said, pointing up.

  Fronto followed his gesture to see legionaries appearing at the edge of the roof tops with masonry in hand, ready to do to the Aegyptians exactly what had been done to them. Fronto stood still as the centurion and his peers began to organise the defence of the two streets to the audible background o
f the advancing spear and sword units, chanting and stomping.

  Giving them room to work, he stepped back and grabbed two men.

  ‘You pair keep a close eye on that barricade. If they show any sign of breaking position and coming this way, shout a warning.’

  The two legionaries saluted and took up position at the street corners, watching and waiting, hands on sword hilts. They had done all they could. Now they just had to hold until other landing units managed to hook up with them. Or until other landing units got here and found four hundred Roman corpses. He tried not to think about that.

  His attention snapped back and forth between the spear unit and the swordsmen.

  This was going to be a bitch of a fight.

  Chapter Twelve

  Had the Aegyptians been more organised, Fronto pondered tensely, they might well have overrun the defence of the crossroads in mere moments. With little more than a hundred legionaries covering each road, and four or five times as many natives coming at them, had they concerted their attack and hit Fronto’s force at the same time, they might well have pushed them back sufficiently to gain a fatal advantage.

  As it was, the swordsmen came on slowly and carefully, while the spearmen ran at speed. Fronto sized them up on their approach in the little time he had. The swordsmen were heavy infantry, equipped in an archaic-looking Greek manner, but at a level comparable with the legionaries and with clear Roman influence in the shield design. Their general look suggested they were a native Aegyptian unit, probably of Alexandrians. As such, they were being very careful, not throwing away their lives, knowing their terrain and their enemy. The spearmen, on the other hand, had an entirely different colouring and a style that Fronto, even after only a short time in Aegyptus, could clearly see was not native. Probably Persian, he thought. Mercenaries. Their enthusiasm would be born of the belief that plunder and reward would be theirs for success, unlike the natives who would be ordinary citizens who fought for their king and their duty to the country.