Sands of Egypt

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Can you tell how many?’

  There was a pause as Galronus made a headcount several times and confirmed his math.

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Not the enemy, then, I reckon. They’d either be large cavalry units or individual riders. Six is about right for a Roman scout patrol in enemy territory. Few enough to be subtle but enough to be a tough proposition for bandits or lone enemies.’

  ‘Shall we signal the flagship?’

  Fronto looked back along the rail. He couldn’t even see Caesar’s flagship. The Chimaera’s captain liked to keep on the edge of the fleet and even the rest of the Rhodians were some distance back, the lunatic trierarch Julius Meleager happy to be way out in front.

  ‘Let’s confirm things first.’ He turned and waved to Julius. ‘How close to shore can you get?’

  ‘Close enough for you to piss on land, Legate,’ grinned the Rhodian.

  ‘Do it. Get close to those riders,’ he pointed in the direction he hoped they were, and finally spotted the shapes, wondering if it was possible for your eyes to age like the rest of you. Presumably. He could swear his eyesight wasn’t as good as it used to be.

  Still, he watched as they closed on the shoreline, where half a dozen horsemen sat on a bluff overlooking the water. If they were enemy riders then they could hardly miss the Roman fleet, but they had made no move to ride away with the tidings. As the ship came ever closer, Fronto could see that they were neither Roman nor Aegyptian. They wore white, hard-linen cuirasses, bronze greaves and helms with pteruges of green hanging from their shoulders, each man armed with a long, Greek-style blade. All had curly black beards, and the slightly olive umber look of the men of Anatolia.

  Aeolians.

  The reinforcements! What were they doing here, so far west of Pelusium? Had they managed to slip scouts past the enemy into the western delta?

  ‘Slow,’ he shouted to the trierarch. ‘Stop, in fact.’

  The Chimaera slid to a halt, the oars backwatering at pace, closer to the shore than Fronto would have dared to attempt, aware as he was of how much damage beaching the ship could do. As they bobbed, the Roman fleet approaching behind, one of the riders walked his horse forwards. Fronto glanced over his shoulder to see that the fleet was slowing, aware that something was happening, then turned again to the man on the shore.

  ‘Identify yourselves,’ Fronto bellowed to the riders.

  ‘Theotimus of Astyra,’ the rider shouted, ‘Ilarch of the Astyra asthippoi of Pergamon.’

  Fronto let out a relieved breath. Prince Mithridates had to be close, then.

  ‘Identify yourself, Roman,’ the man bellowed in turn.

  ‘Marcus Falerius Fronto,’ he replied, ‘Legate of the Sixth Legion and lieutenant of the consul of Rome Gaius Julius Caesar, who follows in the flagship. What news? Is the prince thwarted at Pelusium?’

  A momentary shiver of panic rippled through him. The idea suddenly struck him. What if he’d been wrong? What if the others had been right after all and the enemy had all met up inland somewhere? Even now they could be marching into Alexandria and fortifying the place against them.

  ‘Pelusium?’ snorted the rider. ‘Your information is old, Lieutenant of Caesar. We assaulted the fortress of Pelusium days ago. Pelusium fell to the forces of Mithridates with great success, though after many casualties on both sides.’

  ‘Pelusium fell?’ Fronto felt his heart beat faster.

  ‘Yes, Roman, and our army grows larger once more. The Jews of the Delta had proclaimed for Rome and the Queen of the Nilus and threw in their lot, fighting the enemy and encamping nearby. They have supplied and guided the army onwards. We are currently camped by the river some fifteen miles upstream, and the enemy are closing.’

  The enemy. Then it still was a race…

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Not far away on the western edge of the river. My lord and his officers have decided to dig in rather than meet them head on, for scouts put their numbers at significantly larger than ours, bolstered by the forces that fled from Pelusium. Units such as mine have been dispatched to locate your army, Roman, in the hope that we can redress the balance in numbers.’

  ‘Well you’ve found us,’ Fronto said. ‘Is the river navigable?’

  Only for a short distance on this branch, due to sandbanks.’

  ‘What numbers are we talking about on both sides?’

  ‘Their force is estimated at in excess of twenty thousand. Ours is a little over eleven thousand.’

  Fronto chewed his lip. Add the fleet contingent to that and the numbers would be close enough to par to make no odds. They had a chance. One chance, but they needed to get to Mithridates and his army before Ganymedes managed to deal with them.

  ‘Ride for your camp. Tell the prince that we’re coming. We’ll sail upriver as far as the ships can and then disembark and force march the rest of the way. We shall be with you by sundown.’

  The rider nodded his understanding and then turned and rode back across the bluff, gathered his men and disappeared inland. Fronto eyed the inlet of the river, one of the myriad branches of the Nilus, as it snaked off inland through the green fields and forests.

  This was it. An end to the war at last. No more skulking in palaces or besieging buildings and harbours. They could meet Ganymedes in open ground and face him on their terms. And with the numbers close to even, they would win. With good morale, open ground and no disadvantage, the army of Rome was in its element. They could beat them now.

  * * *

  The Nilus river, March 25th 47 BC

  The sun began to set as the lead elements of Caesar’s force caught their first sight of the army of Mithridates, and a welcome sight it was. Like a strange eastern parody of a legionary camp, the fortified area was filled with tents in ordered rows, and pickets saluted the Romans as they passed along a raised causeway between well-tilled fields.

  Fronto was recovering his colour at last and feeling considerably better on four legs than one keel, riding with the rest of Caesar’s staff at the army’s fore. He approved of the camp they approached, and the sight of it gave him heart. Mithridates and his officers clearly knew what they were doing.

  At a command from the consul, the tribunes hurried about, giving out orders and sending the various units to places where there was still room for men to pitch camp, while the officers and their military escort made directly for the command tent at the centre, surrounded by officers’ pavilions and displaying strange flags with which Fronto was unfamiliar.

  As they approached, men in Aeolian armour that looked oddly similar to that of a Roman officer stepped out of the tent and threw out salutes of greeting, gesturing for the newly arrived Romans to enter. Respect shown in their movements, but without the usual deference. It seemed odd to Fronto, watching these officers treating Caesar like a foreign diplomat rather than fawning all over him, but one had to adjust one’s perceptions sometimes. Caesar was a foreign diplomat here, and while Mithridates might have come to his aid at a summons, Caesar was but a Roman politician, while Mithridates was a prince.

  The Roman officers dismounted and followed the Aeolians inside, into a spacious and lavish tent, filled with luxuries, yet the man on the throne at the far side resembled more a military commander than an extravagant prince.

  ‘Caesar, well met,’ Mithridates said with a warm smile, rising from his throne and striding across the tent before grasping the general’s hand and pumping it up and down in a powerful grip. ‘I was concerned we might not cross paths before one of us had to do battle with the pharaoh.’

  Caesar laughed. ‘We are indeed fortunate, Highness. We were bound for Pelusium, presuming you were held there.’

  ‘Oh we were,’ the prince smiled. ‘For a number of days, in fact. In truth we might well still be there, but a number of local cities suddenly declared themselves our friends and denied the pharaoh’s army support and supplies. It seems that Rome and Pergamon both are warmly regarded by the Jewish communities whe
n compared with the pharaoh. With their lines of supply and communication hampered, the royal forces at Pelusium held out only briefly and then fled west to join with their pharaoh.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘So now the entire force of Ptolemy awaits us?’

  ‘Quite. I fear it will still be a hard fight, Consul. My scouts tell me that his army is fortified some ten miles from here on the west bank of the Nilus. The river there is very much uncrossable and his eastern rampart therefore largely unassailable, barring a narrow strip of riverbank. To the south lies an area of swamp and mire, which defies any advance, and the northern approach is defended by a steep escarpment. Only the western angle is feasible, and that has been well fortified. I can only assume that the pharaoh has become aware that he has failed to prevent our combining forces and therefore is securing against our attack.’

  ‘A wise move,’ Caesar said seriously. ‘Had he agreed to meet us in the open field, we would be a bull to his sheep. His army would have broken within an hour. Fortified, he forces us to play his game. Still, we can do so with confidence of victory, I believe. How, then do we approach, Highness? You have the advantage of having scouted the region.’

  Mithridates shrugged.

  ‘There is a native crossing point roughly halfway between us and the enemy position. If we wish to cross the Nilus, we must either travel back north to where you will most certainly have disembarked from your ships, or south almost twenty miles to a wide crossing, unless we tackle this one in between. Of course, the enemy will also know this, so the likelihood of our army getting that far unmolested is small, I would say.’

  Caesar straightened. ‘Yet we must do it. We finally have all our forces together, and with the entire enemy military gathered close by. Here is our chance to bring to a conclusion the Aegyptian issue, and we must not waste that opportunity. Are your army well-fed and well-rested, Highness?’

  ‘As well as one could hope in this place. The Jewish communities have been most helpful.’

  ‘Good. Then we move at first light. Time to end this.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Nilus river, March 26th 47 BC

  It felt good. In several ways, in fact, it felt good. It felt good to be in the open countryside and able to plan and see for a distance, rather than being cooped up in a fortress made of buildings in the heart of one of the world’s largest cities. And it felt good to be at the front of a massive force, comprised of legionaries, auxiliaries and the great and powerful professional army of Mithridates, rather than worrying about the chances of survival, cooped up with a small force staring out at a massively superior enemy.

  It felt good.

  Good enough even that the oppressive sticky heat of the delta, and the rivers of sweat running down him and sticking the tunic to his skin, was a small niggle. Best of all, the sea was a distant memory and his stomach had finally settled down. He had eaten properly this morning for the first time in days, and he felt all the stronger for it.

  The army travelled in column, but it was a wide and strong column, not some long winding line of drawn out men awaiting easy ambush, for the lands of the delta were flat and easy and given over to agriculture. Many a farmer would curse all the nailed boot prints ruining his crops, but it was certainly easy going for the army.

  Fronto had contemplated walking. In the old days he’d shunned horses on campaign, in those earlier years in Gaul. He’d walked with his men and let his horse travel at the rear. His knee still troubled him, though, and age brought with it an increasing desire for ease.

  He reached down and ruffled Bucephalus’ mane. It occurred to him that his faithful steed, once the horse of Longinus back in that first year of the war, was getting a little long in the tooth himself. He’d never really questioned how long horses lived, but he had a feeling it was perhaps two score years at most. Bucephalus must be an old man himself. Guilt struck him then about the pressure he must be putting on the old boy.

  He glanced to his left, contemplating raising the subject with Galronus, but the sight of the Remi made him force down his maudlin age-based worries. Galronus was a decade younger than he, still lithe and in his prime. And the grin on his face had been there since they broke camp this morning. In fact, it had been there since the previous evening, even through sleep.

  Following their initial meeting with the prince of Pergamon, there had been a long logistical discussion, during which a highlight had been the discovery that a unit of Germanic cavalry had made their way down from Syria alongside the army of Mithridates, bolstered by Galatians from Asia. Galronus had gone to see them almost straight away and had been in their company ever since, Caesar assigning him to their overall command, adding them to his existing Gallic cavalry. Given that they served under three different leaders, a single unifying commander had seemed prudent. Galronus was in his element now, back where he belonged: on a horse and leading other riders, somewhere where he could be effective, in flat, open country. It was what the Remi were born to do.

  Fronto gazed back at the force behind him. He had elected to ride at the front with the horsemen – some eight hundred riders, all of Celtic blood despite their disparate origins, acting as both scouts and vanguard for the army. Behind them came the Sixth Cohorts of the Sixth, Twenty Seventh and Thirty Seventh legions, followed by the staff and the general, along with the prince of Pergamon. Around and behind the rest of the officers rode the commanders’ guards. The companion cavalry of Mithridates in their Tyrian purple and white, covered with gleaming bronze, were impressive, and their officer was almost as richly bedecked as the prince himself. In response, and in order not to be outdone, Salvius Cursor had had his praetorian cavalry spruce themselves up, drawing what fresh kit they needed from the baggage. Fronto smiled at the sight. Salvius was a different animal to Ingenuus, but he was just as focused in his own odd way.

  Then, after the officers, came the bulk of the infantry, both Roman and Aeolian, with the baggage train following on, slaves amid the beasts, hauling gear, driving wagons and leading herds, and then a rear-guard of cavalry supplied by Mithridates. A solid army, altogether.

  Fronto turned his attention once more to the land before them. They had moved several miles from the prince’s camp in the morning sun, along the eastern bank of this particular branch of the Nilus, making for the known crossing point, and the terrain had continued easy and clear.

  Something was happening now, though. Fronto frowned, peering into the distance, trying to make out details, though Galronus and the cavalry had clearly already seen it. The shapes coalesced into those of riders pelting back towards the army. The scouts.

  Fronto felt a shiver of anticipation run through him. That had to mean the enemy had been sighted.

  The scouts hurtled towards them, and as they approached, two thirds of their number rode on past, making for the general, the prince and their officers. The rest fell in alongside their fellows, horses and men alike lathered with sweat.

  ‘Enemy sighted, sir,’ one of them confirmed in a guttural German accent.

  Galronus nodded. ‘Details?’

  ‘About half a mile ahead there’s a tributary – the one we were expecting from the map. A narrow enough river flowing into the main channel, but with steep banks on both sides and no sign of the bridge we’d heard of. The Aegyptians have positioned an army on the far side. Looks like a large cavalry force and a small veteran unit of infantry armed with spears and shields.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘It’s going to be a total shit getting across the river,’ the man replied without a trace of deference in his tone. ‘The enemy don’t worry me, but getting to them will be nasty.’

  Fronto leaned across. ‘Their choice of ground seems good, but not their choice of men.’

  ‘How so, sir?’

  ‘Spearmen can stop anyone getting up the far bank, yes, but what use will their horse be?’

  The rider looked at him as though something odd had suddenly sprouted from his head. ‘Sir?’


  ‘Cavalry can hardly hold a riverbank, surely.’

  The man threw a sidelong look at Galronus, who grinned and nodded. He then looked back at Fronto with creased brows. ‘With respect, sir, I’m of the Boii. No greased-up, make-up wearing, bird-buggering Aegyptian with a spear is going to get in my way. Cut us loose and we’ll show you what use the cavalry can be.’

  ‘But you won’t be able to get down and then up the steep banks.’

  Again the man shared an insolent look with Galronus, who nodded once more. ‘Take the horse and do your worst, Gauto.’

  The Boii warrior grinned a wolfish grin and whooped. In moments the riders were peeling off and racing away to the east, without the need for horns or whistles or other signals. It sometimes surprised Fronto how a decade of serving under a Roman general and alongside the legions, even if only as mercenaries, had done little to change the tribal nature and habits of the cavalry, and he had to repeatedly remind himself that Galronus was the exception to the rule, rather than an example of it.

  As he watched some five hundred horsemen racing off to the east, the rest remaining with the column, Fronto turned to his friend. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re twitching to go with them. I can see it. And you’re their commander, anyway.’

  Galronus looked for a moment as though he might argue, but then gave a bark of a laugh, saluted Fronto and turned his horse, racing off to catch up with his Germanic and Gallic men. Fronto turned in the saddle. The majority of those left with him in the column were Galatians from lands bordering those of Prince Mithridates, and he wondered whether the division between those who’d gone and those who stayed was because of that vague cultural divide.

  As the column moved, Fronto and the horsemen slowed down to allow the gap with the commanders to close, the bulk of the horse having now departed. Fronto peered off to the east. The cavalry would presumably look for a way across the river somewhere upstream, then flank the enemy. If they managed to find a crossing, they might spring a nasty surprise. With half a mile to go and no loud signals given, it was unlikely the Aegyptians would know the horsemen had gone. Certainly with the well-irrigated farmland of the delta, the cavalry did not raise the huge dust cloud that they did on more parched ground to betray their movements.