The flag waved once and Fronto watched the massive camp, impressed as always with the efficiency of the legions. The flag signal was picked up by others and then, as men began to pile from their tents ready for war, whistles started to blow. In heartbeats columns of legionaries were streaming between the tents and past the officers out into the open ground before the gate, units of the army of Pergamon keeping pace.
As soon as the First Cohort was assembled, a cornu hoomed and there was a clattering of swords on shield edges. The First Cohort of the Thirty Seventh began to jog. They had gone little more than a hundred paces when a light unit of speedy Aeolian spearmen caught up and fell in on their flank. Behind them two more cohorts from the Twenty Seventh formed and ran, with Mithridates’ heavy infantry alongside and following on. Fronto turned to the other staff officers as the entire army moved out.
‘See you either in Ptolemy’s tent or in Elysium, gentlemen.’
Similar sentiments were shared by the others as Fronto jogged off to join the Sixth, who were almost formed up. A signifer held the reins of Bucephalus close to the knot of six tribunes, all of whom were mounted ready.
‘Let’s go.’
The ranks of the Sixth moved off in columns and Fronto mounted, the officers riding forward. As they moved, Fronto noted the activity that burst into life all across the landscape. While the Roman force moved at speed for the cavalry camp, accompanied by the vast army of the prince of Pergamon, a rumble like thunder from both sides announced the presence of the Roman and Aeolian horse. The Gallic and German cavalry raced along the left flank, with Galronus briefly visible at its head. The cavalry could do little in actually assaulting the fort, but their presence on the periphery to harry any stray enemies was a given.
The enemy were aware of the danger, now. Men flooded the walls of the royal fortress, preparing to fight off the massive army, peering into the growing light at this alarming and unexpectedly swift assault. It was only as it became clear that the Caesarian force was moving at a tangent, not aiming for the fortress, that their true goal became clear. Desperate horns honked from the fortress, sending warnings to the cavalry camp. In response, panicked signals arose from there. A gate opened as someone made the decision to flee to the safety of the main camp, but no horses emerged as a senior officer commanded the gate shut once more. Even had there been room for them in the main fortress, they would be unlikely to make it without meeting Galronus’ howling Germans and the horsemen of Mithridates first.
Fronto nodded to the other officers and the seven of them began to move aside, riding to the periphery of the Roman force. The situation would require close attention when they moved on to the main fortress, but the centurions could handle this initial attack without great difficulty. As such, the Sixth’s officers sat on the highest rise they could find with a small group of musicians, standard bearers and dispatch riders.
They observed from their vantage point. Just as some fool in the cavalry fort had made to open the gate and flee, before being overridden, another fool in the main fortress opened their west gate and a unit of light swordsmen began to emerge, rushing to the aid of the cavalry until desperate calls pulled them back inside and the gate was shut once more.
Ganymedes was not fool enough to risk his security to save the cavalry. They had to be sacrificed. Fronto approved of the sense of it, despite the loss of men, as he watched the Caesarian army flood up to the mudbrick walls of the smaller fort. No one was going to be able to prevent this. Within moments of reaching the walls, legionaries and provincial Asian units were pouring over the ramparts and into the fort. The Aegyptian cavalry put on a brave show, dismounted and using their longer swords and spears to try and hold back the tide, but even as Fronto watched, he could see the light of Aegyptian defiance winking out. As more and more Caesarian units poured into the fort, hacking and stabbing at their enemy, all without the howls of victory, just an eerie professional silence punctuated by orders or bellowed oaths, finally the enemy broke.
The gate that had been opened briefly was now swung back once more, and this time riders poured from it in desperation, pelting for the safety of the massive fortress on the riverside bluff. Perhaps thirty riders of the hundreds stationed therein made it out of the gate before the attacking infantry closed in and blocked it, penning their enemies while they butchered the trapped men.
Those thirty put heels to flanks and raced with every iota of speed they could manage for safety. It was clear from the start that few would make it. Galronus had been ready for them to break, and as they emerged and charged eastwards, the Caesarian cavalry fell on them without mercy. A dozen Aegyptians died within bowshot of their former fort, others being brought down one after another by the pursuing Gauls and Germans. Fronto counted six that escaped the cavalry alae, for Galronus was not foolish enough to follow them within arrow shot of the enemy fortress.
It was over in the blink of an eye. In less time than it took to dress for battle, the cavalry fort had fallen. The Caesarian forces, with precious few casualties, finished off the enemy, administering mercy kills to critically wounded allies, and swift executions to the remaining enemies, who’d hardly had the opportunity to surrender anyway.
A shrill blast signalled the end of the assault and immediately new signals were being given. Barely had the last kill been made before the army was on the move once more. Fronto took a deep breath.
‘This is it.’
‘Give the order, sir,’ his senior tribune murmured, watching as the men of the Sixth flooded back out of the smaller fort’s north and east gates, forming on the move to save both time and momentum, guided by the shouts and whistles of their centurions and the staves of their optios.
‘This is where it gets dangerous,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s move out.’
Following Fronto, the tribunes and the various signallers and riders trotted down the low slope and moved to intercept their troops before they closed on the enemy fortress. Fronto gave one last glance back at the second force, still assembling and rushing for the western slope of the fortress in the wake of the fleeing horsemen. Caesar, Cassius, Brutus, Salvius and the others would all be over there, all in the company of Mithridates of Pergamon, as they led the majority of the army at that accessible but well defended slope.
‘Double time,’ Fronto said. ‘We need to get to the eastern ramparts quickly enough to pull men away from the western slope.’ In response, the senior tribune issued orders to the signallers, and cornua blared out the sequence.
The Sixth suddenly burst into speed, a swift jog from the steady march, centurions’ whistles urging them on. Fronto looked ahead, his heart beginning to pound. He could see the strip of shore now. There was perhaps room for ten men to move and act abreast between the water and the ramparts of the fortress. A terrible area to be trapped in. He could also see the Aegyptian ships now, anchored fifty paces out into the river, unreachable. Briefly, he contemplated sending men into the water to take the ships, but decided that it would be futile and a terrible waste of men. He had to stick to the plan and pray they could pull this off with as few casualties as possible.
‘To your units,’ he said to the others. ‘But keep an eye on me.’
As the force pounded along the northern side of the fort towards the river, the officers among the units went to work, acting on Fronto’s instructions, imparted in detail the evening before and hammered out with the officers.
The First Cohort filtered inwards, a four-man column becoming only three men wide. Similarly the eight-man column of legionaries from the other cohorts dropped to being six wide. At another signal, as they closed on the fortress, the units formed a loose testudo, tight enough to be protective but still loose enough to allow for a double time jog. Their timing was perfect, and the shields slammed into place above, just as arrows, darts, bullets and rocks began to hurtle out from the fortress walls. Here and there a man fell, but the bulk of the unit held steady as they passed from the northern rampart with the difficult esca
rpment, and into the narrow riverside access.
As they rounded that corner, the legion began to shift once more at yet another signal. While the bulk continued with a roof of shields, hurtling along under the walls, the First Cohort rearranged themselves. The leftmost line, along the shore, dropped their shields back to the side and hunched behind them as they jogged. The middle line and inner line kept theirs raised.
Moments later the ships began to loose their barrage. Arrows and darts thudded into shields. The first artillery shot was a disaster, the units still moving and unprepared to deal with it. A stone the size of a man’s head ploughed into the shield wall, obliterating the front two legionaries and maiming the pair behind them, even crippling the two in the third line. A new signal picked the speed up once more and now the men were running, shields only loosely covering them. Getting into place was the critical thing now.
Fronto watched, nervous, from his vantage point a few hundred paces away. He almost cheered with relief when the men reached the position of the river gate and stopped. At least stationary they could better protect themselves from the incoming storm of missiles.
The men of the Sixth began to pound at the gate and walls, and Fronto watched a battering ram being manhandled into the throng, passed forwards under the roof of shields towards the gate where it could be employed. He chewed his lip. The chances of the gate falling were minimal. The enemy leaders were astute and would almost certainly have bolstered and blockaded the gate inside against just such an eventuality. But the fact was that they weren’t here with the expectation of breaking in. They were to provide sufficient threat to drag enemy troops away from the real battle.
Finally fully in position, all the men fell silent, no more standard signals blaring out for fear of interrupting the all-important warnings. Then it began. Three blasts in sharp succession from somewhere near the northern end of the stretch, and the men around that whistle threw themselves left and right out of the way. The bolt that had thudded free of the shipboard ballista passed between the men and slammed into the mudbrick wall.
It was going to work.
Of course, that would only save some of them. Even as the first missile failed, another set of blasts rang out, and then another, as again and again the naval artillery loosed at the packed men on the bank. With the third shot, soldiers failed to get out of the way in time, and screaming ensued as men were pulverised. At the same time all manner of missiles, both forged and scavenged, were dropped from the walls and archers loosed in continual volleys from the ships. In the first fifty heartbeats few shields remained untouched, most displaying up to ten protruding arrow shafts. Some were pinned to men’s arms or torsos, and rocks occasionally dropped between shields, crippling the soldiers beneath.
The gates were now being pounded with the tree-trunk ram in a steady rhythm, and soldiers were busy trying to mine a way into the ancient mud bricks, loosening them and pulling them away in the hope of forcing a hole in the wall. They would not live long enough to do so. Even as Fronto watched, the attrition rate was appalling. He couldn’t imagine how bad it would have been, had he and his officers not taken what steps they could to minimize the damage.
This had damned well better be worth it.
His gaze slid up to the ramparts. Certainly the walls were thicker with men than they had been when he’d first looked, which suggested they had drawn defenders this way. The sun was now putting in a full appearance, and the mauve glow that had accompanied the fighting so far gradually slid into azure, becoming brighter and brighter.
Fronto turned his gaze upon the far side of the massive fortress, trying to identify what was happening over there, and as he did so something struck him. He paused, brow furrowed. With the increase in light his sight was becoming clearer and clearer. Was it possible?
His command position was on a slight rise for the added field of vision, but it was also a little too close to the ramparts to see much of the interior of the fort despite its slanted angle. He thought…
In a heartbeat, to the surprise of the signallers and couriers around him, he turned and raced his horse north, away from the fortress. Finding a spot several hundred paces further away with a low rise, he trotted up it, turned and shaded his eyes.
A smile rose to his lips.
There was a chance. The enemy had given them a chance. But who should take it? Not Fronto. He was too old for that sort of thing. And clearly not the tribunes. Carfulenus. He seemed solid, and was clearly used to leading them. It had to be him.
Grinning now, he gestured to his companions as he cantered back towards the fight. At the beckoning finger, a courier pulled in beside him.
‘Sir?’
‘Ride into that nightmare and find Centurion Carfulenus. Tell him that the south fortress wall is clear. Tell him to take a few centuries into the marsh quickly and seize that south gate.’
The man frowned, and Fronto pointed at the fortress. ‘They’ve pulled so many men forward to hold against Mithridates and to batter us that they’ve left hardly anyone on the south wall. A few centuries could get through the swamp and take that wall, and once they’re in, the rest will fall. Go, man.’
As the courier raced off, Fronto took a deep breath. There was a chance. Carfulenus would have to get to that gate and assault it before the enemy realised he was doing it, but if he could take that wall, they could secure it for others. The enemy would have to pull more men south to stop him, and that would give both the legions and the Aeolians the chance of breaking in.
He looked at the rapidly dwindling force on the riverbank, being mercilessly pounded with missiles. The battle could be won or lost in the next few moments.
Chapter Twenty One
‘Make your family proud.’
Those had been the last words Decimus Carfulenus had heard from his father’s lips when he had left Aquileia and signed on to join the legions. By a curse of timing he’d hit just the wrong moment for recruitment. A few years later the region would be seething with recruiters manning the legions Caesar would take into Gaul, and a few years earlier, recruiters were filling the ranks of Pompey’s legions for the war against the king of Pontus. But when Carfulenus had been of the right age, the only men who were being sought were burly frontline pioneers to ship around the republic for depleted units.
Decimus Carfulenus had known he was no such type. Oh, he had no fear of combat, and was content to do his part, else why join the army, but he knew his strength to be a little lacking, while his mind was as sharp as a gladius point. He knew with unpleasant irony that he was perfectly suited to commanding a force of men, but the low rank of his birth made that extraordinarily unlikely.
They were not a rich family. They had no lineage like officers from the rank of tribune upwards, who could trace their family line back to the noble patricians who had ousted the kings of Rome centuries ago. Little more than a hundred years since, the Carfuleni had been tribal. Members of the Veneti. Now they were members of the plebeian order. Romans given Latin rights.`
And so he had done the only thing he could. The only way he could use his natural talent for the military. He had signed on as a clerk, given his ability with letters and numbers. Within days he had found himself on a ship, whisked away across the sea to Hispania and the arms of the Ninth Legion, serving under Caesar. He’d had a grand total of four months of honing his craft there, before an accident of geography and timing had left him as the senior soldier among a unit of thirty, in a tiny outpost during the revolt of the Lusitani.
When the howling tribesmen came for them, the men had gone entirely to pieces, and it had only been Carfulenus’ calm demeanour and sensible brain that had managed to pull them together and beat a fighting retreat from there, back to the main body of the Ninth. Better still, they managed to pull out with all the supplies from the outpost intact and with the loss of only two men and three walking wounded.
When they had found the legion, the Ninth were already engaged against more of the natives, and
it took the best part of a month to complete the suppression. In the aftermath, with the high number of casualties among the centurionate, as usual, Carfulenus had found himself nominated for a posting on the strength of his actions the previous month.
He had served as an optio for the next few years, learning the role well and quickly, achieving a level of popularity with others from both above and below. The first year of the war in Gaul had seen a stray blade remove much of his centurion’s neck, and Carfulenus had been promoted in the field, selecting his successor as optio.
He had served throughout the campaign well, though never quite attaining dizzy enough heights to reach the notice of the legate or the general. It had only been on the invaliding out of the Primus Pilus of the Sixth, last year, that Carfulenus had suddenly found himself offered a move to a new legion, in the most prestigious command a man could have below the rank of tribune.
He had been nominally just about old enough by then to legitimately hold a centurion’s vine stick.
A funny old career path.
He had made his family proud, though. Who knew, he might even be given a horse and land and raised to the equestrian order when he finally returned to Italia.
If he finally returned to Italia.
Because right now he was seriously questioning why he’d sought a military career at all, and not just gone into pottery like his father.
An arrow almost parted his hair, and two guilty-looking legionaries closed the gap in their shields over his head. Three shrill whistles blew and the source had been too close for comfort. In a heartbeat, men were scrambling away. The two legionaries forgot all about covering him with a shield and leapt for safety. Carfulenus instinctively threw himself forwards, slamming into the backs of other desperate men as a head-sized stone ball thrummed past, taking the leg clean off a man who’d not moved fast enough, before slamming into the base of the mud brick wall.
Sands of Egypt Page 31