As he put his first foot on the logs of the bridge to cross, he wondered if this had been a terrible mistake. His legs wobbled as he tried to keep his footing, and he felt a sharp pain in his knee as he slid a little on the smooth, curved surface. Quickly, though, he regained his stability and began to hurry across, ignoring the throbbing of his knee.
With a roared oath to Nemesis and Fortuna both, he hurtled across, falling slightly further back as legionaries with catlike grace skittered past him. Still, as he reached the far bank he pushed his way past two small knots of men struggling with Aegyptian spear men, and forced his way into their midst.
An enemy soldier came into view, finishing off a fallen legionary with his spear, and the man only just managed to turn in time before Fronto was on him. The spear came round in the press and Fronto spun, sweeping down with his blade and hacking the shaft in two half way along. As the spear man recoiled, Fronto stepped forwards with a roar, raising the blade again. He slammed it into the man’s neck, feeling it carve through muscle and sinew, twisted and pulled, the man falling away, screaming. Another white-tunic’d and chain-shirted Aegyptian appeared from somewhere, having abandoned his spear in the melee and drawn a blade. The man spotted Fronto and the panic on his face vanished in an instant, to be replaced by hunger, as he saw a Roman officer and realised what a prize Fronto was.
He leapt, sword thrusting, and Fronto almost died in that moment. As he tried to sidestep, his knee trembled and jarred, and he fell against another man. The sword that had been meant for his armpit instead slammed into the leather pteruges hanging from Fronto’s cuirass and carved a deep gash along his left arm.
He cried out in pain but as the man, triumph in his eyes, drew back for another attack, Fronto brought his own sword down in a crossed slash. He couldn’t kill the man through the chain shirt he wore, but it was enough. There was sufficient strength in the blow to snap ribs beneath the shirt and the Aegyptian fell back with a bellow of agony. Fronto righted himself, pushing away from the man he had fallen against. Putting a little weight on his left knee he stepped forwards, preparing to finish his opponent, but a casual stab from a nearby legionary did the job for him.
Fronto paused, heaving in a breath, hissing at the pain in his left arm and testing his tender knee, then straightened and looked for another opponent.
There wasn’t one.
Staring, he realised that almost every figure he could see now was either a German or Gallic cavalryman or a soldier of the Thirty Seventh. Only a few Aegyptians remained, and only then because they were locked in deadly struggles. The rest had gone.
Staggering forwards into an open space, he tried to take stock.
The enemy were running. Cavalry and spearmen alike, they were hurtling south.
A legionary nearby shouted something derisive and made a rude gesture at the retreating Aegyptians, calling them cowards.
‘If that’s what we’re facing,’ someone laughed, ‘then break out the victory crowns now.’
Fronto shook his head, though he did realise that he too was smiling.
‘We might have beaten them back, but this was just a test. Just a hurdle to jump. And those men aren’t gone from the conflict. Even now they’re withdrawing across the river to join with the rest of their army. The big fight is still to come.’
‘We’ll still pound the bastards to snot, sir.’
Fronto laughed and rubbed his knee.
‘I hope so, man. I hope so.’
Chapter Twenty
Fronto reached round and touched his arm, wincing. The movements of the horse seemed to shake the wound open every few heartbeats, or at least that was how it felt. The medicus had assured him that it would begin to knit and heal in no time and that the cut was so clean and straight that there would be hardly a mark in the end, but to Fronto it still felt like an open chasm in his flesh.
Bucephalus walked steadily, once more alongside Galronus’ horse at the head of the column. The general had suggested, rather blatantly, that Fronto might want to stay back with the officers. No one had reprimanded him for being part of the attack across the log bridge, but he could feel the disapproval radiating from the other officers, and when the others had been out of earshot briefly, Cassius had called him a ‘bloody fool’. That at least had made him grin as he declined the offer of safety and rode to the van.
He wasn’t grinning now, and the reason was only partially the pain in his bicep.
The rest was the Aegyptian army that lay ahead.
Reports of the defensive strength of their position had not been exaggerated. The fort they occupied would be a tough proposition for any army. Clearly this had once been a garrisoned fortress, though long since out of use, its thick mudbrick walls now cracked and ancient yet still strong. It would take a determined legionary to climb them, especially under a hail of missiles. The entire place was on a slight rise by the river, a huge, square monstrosity. To the south apparently lay a wide marsh that denied access for the Roman army. To the north, facing the approaching legions, Fronto could see a steep escarpment rising from the flat earth of the delta before even the walls began. To the west lay a gentle slope that constituted the most reasonable approach, yet was the strongest fortified. And to the east lay the river, with just a narrow strip of land separating fortress from water.
Clearly, the northern approach would be an insane proposal, and the southern marshes impossible for sufficient numbers. That left both east and west, each of which had been discussed by the officers on their approach. The west would be the most straightforward, but the best defended. To the east stood a dock on the river and a gate in the wall for access from the waterside. That had been an attractive option.
Until now.
He sucked his teeth and looked the scout in the eye. The man’s gaze did not falter.
‘How many?’
‘I counted eight, sir.’
Eight warships. Damn it.
‘And there’s no hope of taking them down?’
‘Not without ships of our own, sir. They’re anchored mid-stream. They’re bristling with men. I would guess that the fortress itself is not quite large enough for the royal army, and the excess have been pressed into secondary locations.’
Irritatingly dangerous ones, it would seem. For a moment, Fronto pondered how the enemy had managed to get ships here, when the Roman fleet couldn’t reach this far upriver without grounding on mud banks. Still, he had been told that the entire delta region was a criss-crossing and winding network of interconnected branches of the river, along with a few man made canals. Probably the ships had come via another branch. He sighed. Where they came from was irrelevant. The fact was that they sat untouchable out in the water, and their presence made the riverside approach far less favourable. Attacking along that narrow strip of land under a barrage from the walls above would be hard enough, but to do so while being pounded with missiles from eight ships out in the water too would be horrendous.
‘And this other fort? How defensive is that?’
The scout huffed. Fronto was asking for confirmation of things he’d already said in his initial report.
‘It’s an easier proposition than this one, sir. About the size of a vexillation camp for a single cohort. Mud brick walls, but with no natural defences. Houses maybe five hundred, with stabling.’
Fronto nodded. A second fortress, perhaps a quarter of a mile from the main one, off to the west, seemingly housing the cavalry, those men who had fled the last fight to return to the main force. The Caesarian army could attack from the west, but they would need to deal with the outlying cavalry fort first, which would give the enemy time to prepare and could at least slightly weaken the Roman force.
Sagging, he nodded to the scout and turned to Galronus. ‘I’m going to consult Caesar.’
Gesturing back north, Fronto turned his horse and rode back along the line of cavalry with the small scout unit, racing the rumour, spreading by word of mouth along the line, that the Aegyptian navy h
ad come to the enemy’s aid. They reached the staff officers swiftly, and Caesar, Mithridates and the others pulled out to the side of the column to meet the riders.
‘What news?’ Caesar demanded. Fronto sat back and once again let the scout repeat his tidings, emphasising this time every bit of detail Fronto had drawn out of him. When he had finished, Caesar tapped his lip with a finger and turned to the prince of Pergamon.
‘A tough nut, Highness. No approach feels adequate.’
Mithridates nodded. ‘If the enemy are both prepared and spirited we will be forced to fight hard. I might humbly suggest that the only realistic advantage we can hope for is to inspire fear. We occupied a poor position by the previous river but the suddenness, unexpectedness and ferocity of our attack drove terror into enemy hearts and saw their resolve crumble. If that success could be repeated, then perhaps we might improve our chances.’
Caesar continued to tap his lip. ‘Quite. Ferocity and unexpectedness: a powerful combination. Let us keep them off guard and unprepared. It is afternoon now, and any assault we launch runs the risk of continuing into the hours of darkness. Let the men rest and relax. We shall make camp within sight of their walls, where they might brood over our numbers, strength and confidence. Let them spend the evening and the night worrying over what we might do.’
‘And what shall we do?’ Mithridates enquired.
‘At dawn, the centurions and your officers will have the entire army ready to move at a moment’s notice. We shall launch our attack immediately, and without pause to dissemble the camp or pack the tents. This fight will end on the morrow and we shall not worry about leaving an abandoned camp thereafter.’
‘But where do we attack?’ Fronto mused. ‘The riverside? Or do we take on the cavalry fort first and then the western slope? Or perhaps a division of forces?’
‘All of this we shall achieve,’ the consul said with an odd smile.
‘Caesar?’
At dawn the army will answer the call, each man having broken his fast quietly in his tent, unseen by the enemy. At the horn’s cadence, the army will advance at a fast march against the cavalry fort and overrun it.’
Cassius frowned. ‘Caesar, there cannot be more than half a thousand cavalry in the fort. Twice that if they pack tightly. It will not take an army of twenty thousand men to overwhelm it.’
‘Absolutely,’ smiled the general. ‘But the victory of such a huge force against such a minor one will be both swift and total. Let the enemy watch their external fort fall in mere heartbeats to an army that only moments earlier appeared to be abed. Imagine if you will the consternation and nerves this will spread among their number.’
Brutus smiled too now. ‘It will certainly be a shock.’
‘And we shall give them no time to rally. The very moment the cavalry fort falls, the army will divide. My lord prince, I propose a division of labour. Your force contains a number of cavalry and archers, as well as trained infantry. I suggest that your army marches upon the easier western slope, along with my cavalry, the Thirty Seventh and the depleted cohorts of the Twenty Seventh, where numbers will be crucial, and where both horse and bow might be of effect.’
Mithridates nodded. ‘And the Sixth, Consul?’
Fronto waited, tense, listening carefully.
‘The Sixth will assault the east, along the river side. It is a dangerous approach, but the strip of land is narrow and more suited to heavy infantry. Your assault,’ he added, turning to Fronto, ‘is considerably more difficult and destined almost certainly to fail. However, in pressing there you will force the enemy to divide their number. You should be able to draw sufficient defenders to the east to weaken the men facing us on the west, granting us adequate advantage to overcome them.’
‘That’s a bitter task, General,’ Fronto said, reservedly.
‘But an important one. It is a task I can only give to a veteran force with a history of such engagements. That describes both the Sixth and yourself, Fronto.’
Mithridates laughed. ‘You are a wily fox, son of Venus. Gods be praised I am not your enemy. It shall be as you say. Our army will tackle the western slopes upon the fall of the fort.’
Fronto tried not to feel put upon. He’d been assigned the shitty end of the sponge stick, and they all knew it, but the idea was sound, as was the reasoning of assigning the Sixth.
‘Good.’ The consul turned to the rest of the staff. ‘Fronto, Brutus can advise you on the most advantageous approach, given the enemy ships’ capabilities. Cassius will command the reserve, which we will keep out of missile shot of the walls and ships. I shall remain with the command and guide the battle as best I can. For now, have the men make camp and be certain that they are in good spirits. Let the Aegyptians see them drink wine, eat hearty and sing songs of battle.’
* * *
The night was sultry, with the heat of the day still evident and the waters of the delta providing humidity. The camp seethed with life, more resembling a legion in garrison during winter months than an army on active campaign. The atmosphere was positive, almost festive, even. The only men not relaxing were the pickets watching the enemy fortress.
Fronto strolled between the tents until he found the First Cohort. He’d not got to know many of the officers from the Sixth personally, as he’d done with the Tenth in the old days. He’d not felt the same connection with this likely temporary command, after all. Yet now, facing the brutal task assigned them, he was regretting it. In such times, it was important to know the men upon whom success or failure might hinge.
First he sought out the tribunes. The five junior ones were the usual chinless adolescents looking for a reputation to carry them into office in Rome. The senior tribune was a solid man, though. A career soldier looking to gain a position as a legate and therefore open to sound tactical thinking and a good link in the chain of command.
Having familiarised himself with the nominal commanders of the Sixth, he’d moved on to the senior centurion. Carfulenus he had fought alongside, of course, and had spoken to repeatedly since their arrival in Aegyptus, and yet he realised now that he still knew nothing about the man. Not even where he came from.
He found a soldier on guard at the centurion’s tent, and with only the briefest of introductions was admitted. Upon entry, Fronto immediately formed a positive opinion of the man. The tent was missing many of the home comforts senior centurions tended to gather, resembling much more an ordinary soldier’s accommodation, or Fronto’s own, of course.
Carfulenus sat on the edge of his cot, buffing his sword’s baldric and periodically taking a bite from the bread and sausage on the platter beside him. As Fronto entered, the centurion rose and saluted, placing his sword on the bed.
‘Sir.’
Fronto nodded a greeting and motioned for the man to sit.
‘You’re familiar with the plan for tomorrow?’
Carfulenus nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ He began to polish once more as he sat, and Fronto frowned.
‘Don’t you have a man to do that?’
‘Somewhere,’ the centurion smiled. ‘One of the lads is always offering, but I’m from a family of modest means, sir. I’m not used to having people to perform such simple tasks. Besides, when you do it yourself, you know it’s done right.’
Fronto grinned. He liked the man more with every encounter.
‘I’m not worried about the cavalry fort,’ the legate said, ‘but the riverbank attack is going to be nasty, and I intend to keep as many men alive as possible. We’ve only got to draw their attention and keep them busy. Caesar and the prince will storm the camp then. Most of the Sixth will make an assault on the eastern river gate and wall and form a roof of shields. I want the First Cohort forming a wall against the ships, though. We have to hold off any barrage as much as possible.’
‘That’s not going to be easy, sir. Even disregarding arrows, there will be artillery.’
‘Yes, I’ve been pondering that. This is why I want to keep the units on separate assignme
nt. I want a new signal. Distribute spare whistles among your men. I want a whistle every ten or fifteen paces along the bank. The moment an artillery bolt or rock comes your way, I want a signal given, and the entire unit can open up a passage, stepping out of the way of the missile. It’s far from foolproof, but it will save men. Can you do that?’
Carfulenus nodded. ‘We’ll need to take extra whistles from the Thirty Seventh, but it can be done.’
‘Good.’ Fronto leaned back. ‘Keep your men alert and alive, Centurion. And keep an eye and an ear on me. The situation tomorrow is going to be very changeable and fluid, and I need every man ready to react at a moment’s notice.’
Again Carfulenus nodded, and Fronto grinned. ‘Now let me introduce you to a habit I learned from the tribes of Hispania. A fortifying of the spirits for coming war.’ With a grin, he produced a small jar of wine.
Carfulenus smiled.
* * *
Fronto moved between the tents once more, watching the glow of dawn rapidly blossoming and driving back the indigo gloom. Scratching himself absently, he adjusted his helmet strap and rolled his shoulders. This was it.
Every tent flap displayed a collection of eager faces, fed and watered and battle-ready, waiting for the call.
He reached the camp gate just as the other staff officers drifted in. Caesar sat astride his white horse, red cloak bundled up ready to let loose. No point in alerting any watchful Aegyptian too soon. In moments they were ready.
‘Every man knows his place?’ the consul asked quietly.
Cassius nodded. ‘All is set, Caesar.’
‘Then let us begin. Jove and Mars watch over us.’
The gathered officers made votive motions to the sky and then finally Caesar turned to the nearest signaller, who held the general’s red and gold “Taurus” vexillum. ‘Give the signal.’
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