Sands of Egypt

by S. J. A. Turney

  The effect among the enemy fleet was both instantaneous and unanimous. Where they had watched their three foremost warships sunk and damaged, they had retained formation and remained in position. Whether it was the sheer audacity of the Rhodian vessel charging them and sinking their flagship, or whether perhaps it was the insult of hacking off the head of their commander, Julius would never know. But the enemy fleet was moving. Whistles and horns were blowing back there and the entire Aegyptian fleet was on the move.

  In his sacrifice, Euphranor had goaded them sufficiently at last.

  With a slow exhale of regret, Julius turned back towards the sea. He could see the Roman fleet out there. They too were moving now, reorganising to meet the enemy. He had little doubt that in open sea the Roman ships with their superior numbers and stronger discipline would carry the day. Julius made a small vow to Athena that, when they returned to the city, he would make sure those in command knew that while Tiberius Nero had commanded the fleet and won the battle, it was Euphranor of Rhodos who had made it possible.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Royal palace, Alexandria, March 23rd 47 BC

  Fronto rubbed his eyes, scraping away the sleep in the corners, yawned and scratched himself in a most un-patrician manner. Squinting, he focused on the shape of Galronus in the doorway, the Remi horseman almost vibrating with energy. Damn, but how was he so alert at this time of the morning? No, Fronto decided firmly. Night. Not morning. Morning was some way off yet, and even the larks were still chirping into their pillows.

  ‘Wha?’

  ‘Something’s happening with the Aegyptian forces. Looks like they’re pulling back.’

  ‘Wha?’

  Fronto pulled the sheets back, grateful for the faint waft of air that reached his sweaty form beneath, and swung his legs out over the edge of the bed, sighing with pleasure as they slapped down onto cool marble.

  ‘About an hour ago someone first reported it, but it looks like they’ve actually been thinning out for hours.’

  Fronto frowned. ‘Thinning out?’

  ‘There’s still men on their defences and their ships remain in the commercial harbour. They still have artillery manned and so on, but the numbers of men visible have been decreasing throughout the night, if reports are to be believed. They’re pulling back, Cassius reckons, but where to is the question, and why.’

  ‘Cassius is up and about too? What’s the matter with you all? Are you allergic to sleep?’

  ‘Fronto!’

  ‘Alright, I’m coming.’

  As he struggled into a clean tunic, belting it and slipping his feet into his boots, he pondered the situation. A thought nagged at him. As he raked a bone comb through his salt-and-pepper hair, he narrowed his eyes.

  ‘They’re trying to sneak away and get a head start.’

  Galronus nodded. ‘Seems reasonable. But where to, and why?’

  Fronto slipped his sword baldric over his shoulder, a finishing touch that finally made him feel dressed. ‘It’s what we did numerous times,’ he said, ‘including to Pompey at Dyrrachium. And there’s only one reason to need a head start. We’re in a race. We just don’t know it yet. Come on.’

  Hurrying out of the chamber and heading through corridors towards the room Caesar used for his headquarters, Fronto worked his mind through everything he knew was going on, teasing the pieces of information together like a child’s puzzle to see if they fitted. They did. Alarmingly well, too. By the time he reached the command room and the praetorians threw back the doors for him, he was confident of both what was happening and what they needed to do in response to it.

  Caesar was standing with the queen, Cleopatra, looking out over the balcony, towards the city where Ganymedes and King Ptolemy still held control. The armies had been in a deadlock now for two months since the battle at the Heptastadion had ended in a stalemate, but if Fronto was right – and damn it, but he knew he was right – then not only had that deadlock finally ended, but Alexandria had in fact just become entirely unimportant.

  Cassius was poring over a map with Brutus and Hirtius. Orfidius Bulla and Uttedius Pollio, the two senior officers, were locked in debate in the corner with the commander of the palace guard, and other officers stood at the periphery, quiet and pensive.

  ‘It’s a race, and we’re losing with every moment we waste,’ he announced as he entered, halting all other conversation and drawing every gaze.

  ‘Fronto, good morning.’ Caesar said calmly. ‘I am inclined to disagree, however. Many possible explanations have been bandied about, but the most likely answer is not one we should rush into. We know that our relief comes by coastal route, while the enemy are expecting their reserves from the south, inland. Our legions move faster than their army and are prepared for trouble all the way. It is the general belief, based upon the queen’s knowledge of geography and our understanding of the forces involved, that Ganymedes is sending a sizeable escort to bring in his reserves, lest they meet our own reinforcements in the delta with disastrous results.’

  ‘No, Caesar, that’s not what’s happening.’

  ‘It is the most plausible explanation, and fits with their command style thus far,’ Cassius offered from across the room.

  ‘Bollocks. Ptolemy is not in command, because he would be weak and cower behind his walls. Arsinoë can no longer be an influence, and Achillas is dead. Ganymedes is still running this war for the enemy, and he is a man given to considered action. Moreover, he is willing to sacrifice to gain strength, as we saw at the Heptastadion. He’s not the sort of commander to panic over the safety of his reserves and weaken his position here because of it. At best he will have sent scouts who know the delta to pass word to his approaching reserves. But that isn’t what’s happening. We need to move. This is a race.’

  ‘Where to?’ Hirtius queried.

  Fronto marched over to the table and turned the map so it was the right way up for him.

  ‘Here. Pelusium.’

  ‘What? That’s ridiculous. It’s all the way across the delta and of little importance now. What are your reasons?’

  Fronto walked across to the window and peered at the enemy defences. What he saw – a thin, skeleton force at best – supported his theory. He waved at the enemy lines.

  ‘They’ve taken nine men in every ten by the looks of it. They’ve only left enough troops behind to hold their walls for a few hours. Enough to look like they’re still there. Those men out there are like my men at Dyrrachium, manning empty walls until the last minute so the army can get a dozen miles from Pompey before he realises it. They don’t care what happens here now. Alexandria is no longer of importance to them. They just want to delay our realising it.’

  ‘But why?’ Cassius pressed.

  ‘Pelusium. It’s all there. Think about it. When we first got here the queen had an army but they were bogged down at Pelusium by Ptolemy’s forces.’ He gestured to Cleopatra, who nodded.

  ‘We were held there,’ she confirmed. ‘Achillas had occupied an old fort at the main crossing. A powerful one, and we couldn’t realistically pass it.’

  ‘And because we’ve been concentrating on Alexandria,’ Fronto ploughed on, ‘we’ve ignored Pelusium. We’ve labelled it unimportant and assumed it no longer mattered. But we were wrong. Ganymedes and ourselves have both been playing a waiting game, knowing that whoever’s reserves reached the city first could win.’

  ‘This is all common knowledge that proves nothing,’ Hirtius grumbled.

  ‘Listen to me. I think that Ganymedes is brighter than any of us have given him credit for. He’s not panicking about his reserves bumping into the relief. In fact, I think that’s his very plan. He could probably have had his forces here first, but he’s decided that if he does, and he assaults us, he’ll deplete his force just in time for our reserve to thrash him. No, he’s decided to remove our support from the field.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I would wager that a week or more ago his reserves were rerouted to Pe
lusium. In fact, I’d wager that for the last month, ever since the navy battered him at Canopus, he’s concentrated on winning the land war. He’s gathered all possible forces at Pelusium to stop our reserves the same way Achillas did to the queen.’

  Cleopatra straightened, eyes wide. ‘He will not have the men to destroy them, just hold them, as Achillas did to me, but…’

  ‘But if the army can hold our reinforcements there long enough for Ganymedes main force to arrive from Alexandria, then he can obliterate our reinforcements at Pelusium with overwhelming numbers. Then there will be no more help coming for us and he can simply stroll back to Alexandria and wipe us out. By then our numbers will be the same, but his will have doubled once more. This city is unimportant now. The critical fight is going to be at Pelusium. We can sit here and watch them gradually thin out, or we can try and reach the reserves and turn the tide. A race. See?’

  Cassius nodded. ‘Gods, but if you’re right and we don’t get there in time, our reserves will be massacred. This place is now of no strategic value.’

  Caesar looked back and forth between his officers, settling finally on Fronto. ‘You’re sure? Confident? Everything might rest upon this decision.’

  Fronto nodded. ‘It’s what I would do, Caesar. On your more impulsive days it’s what you would do, too. We’re in a race but we haven’t even put our shoes on and found the starting blocks, while the competition is already halfway to the first turn.’

  The general rubbed his temple. ‘Our legions can force march faster than their men, but they know this terrain much better. I think our speed advantage is negligible at best in the circumstances. Moreover, if we race there we arrive with exhausted men, a situation far from ideal.’

  Brutus looked up from the table, a finger moving slowly from Pelusium to the coastline on the map. ‘Ships.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Send them by ship. The winds are no longer unfavourable. We can sweep east along the coast with ease.’

  Cassius shook his head. ‘Tiberius Nero still has more than half the fleet prowling the open sea and the river channels looking for the rest of Ganymedes’ ships. We don’t have enough vessels to carry the army, and it will take days to bring them all in.’

  Brutus let a sly grin slide across his face. ‘There are ships here for the taking. When we first got here, Fronto took the ships in the Great Harbour. Yes, he later burned them, but he initially took them, and without much difficulty. Now there’s a sizeable fleet in the commercial harbour – the one that pinned our men on the Heptastadion – and the enemy forces in the city couldn’t hold back an angry dog, let alone a Roman legion. We impound the vessels they left behind – bit of a mistake, that – add them to our own fleet and then ship the army to Pelusium.’

  ‘Will they get there in time?’ Pollio put in with an air of uncertainty.

  Brutus made a waving motion with his hand.

  ‘All things being equal, if we can secure the fleet today and get the army boarded, I think the ships could be at Nicopolis by nightfall. As long as they don’t run into trouble, they’ll be offshore at Pachamounis the night after, then Tamiathis, and finally Pelusium. With good captains you could squeeze an extra day out of that, but you have to allow for not all the ships being as fast as our warships.’

  ‘And at best guess,’ Cassius replied, ‘that’s one day less than a land army would take on the speed march. But they left half a day early. It’s going to be tight.’

  ‘Then we’d best get going,’ Fronto said.

  * * *

  Fronto peered from the alleyway, the half-light of dawn illuminating the fort. His gaze was drawn inevitably to the corner of the wall from which he’d plummeted gracelessly into the harbour’s waters, and he had to drag it back. There was no sign of life on the walls, but torches guttered, so someone was in there.

  Carfulenus appeared next to him.

  ‘Looks deserted.’

  ‘It isn’t, though. Someone is keeping the torches lit. It’s a gamble. Either Ganymedes pulled out every man he could spare and abandoned the fort, which is what I lean towards, with just maybe half a dozen men keeping the gates shut and the torches lit. Or… he filled it with horrible surprises for us. I doubt he’s had time, but he has a habit of such underhanded nastiness. It’s a risk.’

  ‘It’s one we need to take, sir,’ the centurion urged him.

  ‘Agreed. Pass the word. No horns or shouting. Move out fast. Whistles only when we’re on the dock. You know what to do. Two centuries to each ship.’

  Carfulenus nodded and ducked back into the alley.

  Moments later, men of the Sixth Legion poured from the streets around the recently contested Heptastadion fort and swarmed along the seafront beneath the walls of the fortress. It was eerie to Fronto. He’d had legions moving quietly before, but it never seemed quite right. Rome charged to war with loud and proud statements, not sneaking hither and thither. Around him, like a sea of ants, shadowy centuries of men poured through streets nominally controlled by the enemy, and into the commercial harbour.

  They had not seen a single Aegyptian, though they had kept well clear of the enemy’s defensive line, just in case.

  Taking a deep breath as a signifer, struggling under the weight of his heavy standard, charged past, Fronto began to run along with his men. Out from the alley, amid the streams of legionaries, he pelted for the harbour. He had passed the gate of the Heptastadion fort before the enemy alarm went up. Someone halfway alert within the fort had noticed the army flooding past the walls, and was now shouting and waving a torch atop the rampart. He would be too late to make a difference. Already men from the legion were hurtling along the dock and making for boarding ramps.

  The Aegyptian ships, largely wide-bottomed civilian merchants, were open to them. Each ship would have a small private guard aboard to prevent thieves and other local trouble from boarding uninvited, but half a dozen native toughs would be no match for the men of the legion.

  As a horn call finally announced that something important was happening in the port, Fronto was already along the harbour side and choosing which ship he felt like being sick over the side of for the next few days. Something wide and flat and heavy and less given to bouncing around, he decided.

  The ships were largely unmanned. Being civilian ships on the whole, their crews were ashore, with only a few guards aboard. As such there was little chance of any of them escaping the closing Roman grip.

  Selecting a ship, Fronto followed a century of men up the boarding ramp. Two natives lay dead at the top, two more bodies floating in the water below, a fifth clutching his head and cowering by the rail as a legionary threatened him.

  Behind the second century to board came the half dozen really important figures. Each unit had been assigned a man who could pilot the vessels, another who could keep a tune and four men who knew what to do with the many ropes and cleats. Without them, the Roman force would stand little chance of putting to sea.

  The helmsman took his place as the piper stood by the mast. Two centuries of men threw themselves into the oar benches, while the remaining sailors loosed the ropes and pulled in the ramp. The last legionary to board pushed the injured native into the water, and in moments the pipes were issuing a rhythmic tune and the legionaries were undergoing on-the-job training as rowers.

  There were an alarming few moments as the soldiers seemed unable to fall into a rhythm and the oars continually thumped and clacked into one another, threatening to break, but finally they found something like a rhythm and began to move.

  Fronto took a deep breath as he looked this way and that across the harbour. There was as yet no sign of enemy interference, and most of the ships were pulling out into the water. They’d succeeded, and the ease with which they’d done so and the lack of interruption confirmed the situation. There were too few Aegyptians left in the city to contemplate fighting back.

  Well, the Romans had acquired their secret weapon now.

  The chase was on.


  * * *

  Off the coast of the delta, March 25th 47 BC

  ‘What’s that?’ Galronus murmured, pointing from the rail.

  Fronto lifted his green face. ‘Probably vomit,’ he grunted.

  ‘It is beyond me how you can be so sick on calm water over such a short distance.’

  ‘I could be sick floating in a bucket if I could fit. What is it?’

  ‘Horseman,’ Galronus said, pointing again.

  Fronto followed his gaze and tried to spot the man. The morning light was still dim and vague on this, their second day out of Alexandria, and he had to squint and focus to make out any detail on the land, trying hard not to notice the water in between.

  He could see nothing, but now the Rhodians around him were spotting something too.

  Bloody Rhodians!

  Once the fleet had been loaded, Fronto had planned to sail on the flat bottomed slow merchant he’d helped take, but Caesar had assigned his officers and had placed Fronto on a vessel of which he already had experience, with orders to try and keep the Rhodian contingent from doing anything unexpected and precipitous. Thus, rather than his stable, slow merchant, Fronto had found himself aboard the Chimaera once more, which knifed through the water like a race horse. Worse than that, a ship whose steersman seemed to enjoy throwing the ship into sharp turns to left and right every now and then, apparently for no better reason than to laugh as the Roman officer nominally in command ran across to the rail to deluge the waters with yet more stomach lining.

  He ignored the Rhodians, concentrating.

  Galronus had better eyes than him. Fronto could still see no rider.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The Remi nodded. ‘A small group. Can’t tell whose, though.’