Now buildings were ablaze, and the precious reserves and slaves, and all those needed to support the massive army who had been cowering in the safety of the heart of the fort, were dying in droves by the blade, or worse still, trapped in burning buildings. Chaos ruled in the fortress, and Ptolemy could see no way they could realistically regain control now. Indeed, the realisation that the fortress was on the brink of collapse had redoubled the Roman efforts. Those men by the river bank had forced a hole through the mudbrick walls and were only being kept outside by throwing men at them in waves. And the Romans’ Aeolian ally was forcing the western gate, on the brink of success.
They had lost, and they all knew it.
Ptolemy had made his decision even before he saw others doing the same. Soldiers, panic filling their very marrow, were dropping down from the walls, risking injury to escape this place that had begun as a sanctuary and now seemed destined to become a mausoleum. They were dropping over the very corner where the pharaoh watched, where they could attempt to flee to the north or, best of all, into the water where ships waited to spirit them away.
The pharaoh looked left and right. He was under no illusions that he was in control here. He was a prisoner of Ganymedes as much, if not more, than he’d been a prisoner of Caesar. The soldiers by his side were his jailors, not his ‘protectors’. They were distracted. Everyone was distracted. The war was ending in chaos and oblivion. Who was going to care about him?
Without further pause, Ptolemy leapt forwards and jumped from the rampart, turning well and reaching out to grasp the parapet. With shouts of alarm his jailors came after him, but they could do little. He was hanging by his fingertips. The drop was perhaps forty feet in total, just over thirty from where he hung, but a good seven or eight feet of crumpled bodies lay down there to break the fall.
As hairy hands reached down to grab him, he let go.
Ptolemy, renegade king of Aegyptus, hit the cushion of the dead hard, but managed not to twist or break anything. He was forced to pause to recover, but was soon up and moving again. The knowledge that the fortress was lost must have been all consuming now, for men were throwing themselves from the walls with wild abandon, risking everything rather than be butchered or burned inside. He was one of hundreds, thousands even, fleeing the walls. The Romans were still clamouring to get in just fifty paces away, and some turned and shouted, pointing at the king.
He ignored them. They would never catch him. He sprinted from the dust down the bank and threw himself into the water. The nearest ship was already receiving survivors who had swum across. Ptolemy set his sights on it. As he swam, desperation giving way slowly to relief, he glanced back. He was immensely gratified to spot both Ganymedes and Arsinoë high on the walls, surrounded by Roman standards. Good. At least they could pay for this mess.
And when Rome had settled it all, Ptolemy would approach Caesar and explain that he had been an unwilling prisoner. That he had begged Caesar not to send him back. He could yet turn this to his advantage.
He would…
The crocodile came from nowhere.
One moment, Ptolemy Theos Philopator was a refugee king, with plans to regain his throne.
The next, he was food.
Chapter Twenty Two
Alexandria, Kalends of April 47 BC
Fronto felt for Carfulenus. The man had been instrumental in the victory at the Nilus, after all. Hades, but they might well not have won at all, had the centurion not achieved what had initially been deemed impossible by both sides. Certainly it seemed highly likely that the Sixth would now constitute just a handful of wounded men with a mangled eagle, had the centurion not caused destruction and panic within the heart of the enemy on an unprecedented scale.
And yet he was not here to revel in his victory, as the place for a centurion was with his legion, and so Carfulenus busily slogged through the delta a couple of days behind, while Fronto had joined the officers with the cavalry for their triumphant return to the city.
Fronto relished the memory of that victory.
The clash had swung in a single moment.
They had been fighting a battle that could go either way, with a huge scale of loss and bloodshed on both sides, the masses of Rome and Aeolia being held at the walls by the determined forces of Ganymedes. The Gabiniani in particular had been a thorn in Caesar’s side, for their Roman origin gave them the same siegecraft that the general’s own legions displayed, making the battle all the more difficult.
The army in its massive glory had been kept at the western ramparts, while the Sixth were busy being metaphorically pounded with a meat tenderiser between the east wall and the river. Then Fronto had seen the mistake in the enemy’s organisation and had passed word to Carfulenus. It had taken perhaps a half hour of continued brutality, for all those men at the walls, for the centurion and his small unit of insurgents to make their way unnoticed through the marsh and assault the barely-defended south wall.
The moment they had crested the battlements, everything had changed, and it had changed quickly. Fronto and the others fighting their desperate fight outside hadn’t seen or understood what was happening, of course. They had only seen the effect. Suddenly, columns of black roiling smoke had begun to curl up into the sky from the interior of the fortress. Then here and there the missile troops on the walls had begun to lift their barrage of the attackers, turning their bows, slings and darts on something unseen inside, instead.
It had not taken long then before panic set in. The enemy went to pieces very quickly, the Gabiniani the unit who held things together the longest. But with the enemy’s attention so utterly divided, the main force at the western wall had easily managed to overcome the rampart and the gate.
The enemy had broken. With no hope of regaining control of their own fortress, the bulk of the men simply tried to flee the field. More than half the enemy force was composed of conscript units from distant parts of upper Aegyptus, who had no intention of being butchered or enslaved by a victorious Roman army for a lost cause, or of foreign allies or mercenaries, none of whom had any inclination to stick around.
Only the Gabiniani and a few small local units from the great city fought on, surrendering only at the very last in the heart of their own fortress. Those enemy soldiers who’d dropped over the walls and run for their lives invariably escaped. The Romans still had to fight on at that point and overcome the Gabiniani, and many of those fleeing were just farmers who would be needed for the grain supply in times of peace, after all.
What had happened to the king was a matter of some debate. Some said he was seen to drown in the river, others that he made it to a ship which then simply sank under the weight of refugees. This last was possible. That very fate had struck three of the eight ships after all. Every account of eyewitnesses, whatever they said, uniformly involved the death of Ptolemy the Thirteenth.
Without the evidence of a body, Fronto would never be certain that the young idiot hadn’t escaped, but it didn’t really matter. If he ever put in an appearance, he would gain no support. His sister would now be the uncontested ruler of Aegyptus. The army and the country entire would bow to her. Nobody would support the failed king.
And the really dangerous leaders of the enemy had been captured. Princess Arsinoë had been taken by men of the Twenty Seventh atop the walls, where she claimed to have been attempting to surrender to Rome anyway, wishing to help them bring down the general who had deposed her. Her wiles came to nothing. She had been chained like a common slave and added to the column bound for Alexandria.
Ganymedes had fought to the last, and when it had become clear he had lost, and he found himself at the mercy of the victorious Romans, he had spat hatred and curses at them, and then raked his dagger across his own throat before anyone could stop him.
All that had remained was the mopping up, securing of prisoners and burial of the dead. The officers had spent one further night there, overseeing it all, before departing and leaving it to the low-rankers.
Alone among the enemy, the Gabiniani had been treated differently. As Roman citizens, they could not be taken as slaves, and no officer, no matter that they had fought on the other side, had any desire to execute so many of their countrymen after years of civil war. Everyone had seen enough of Roman bodies, after all. When the leader of the Gabiniani had lowered his weapon and pledged to take an oath of allegiance to the victors, that solution had been accepted by all parties.
The war was over.
The following day Caesar and Mithridates, along with the senior officers of both armies, had begun the journey back to Alexandria by the fastest of land routes, accompanied by cavalry units. All along the return trip they found evidence of check points, outposts and depots that had until very recently been manned by Aegyptian soldiers, but had been abandoned by the time the Romans arrived. Tidings of the victory had apparently raced across the delta with far more speed than any cavalry unit.
Now, as they crossed the dusty Plain of Eleusus, and approached the Canopian Gate, it became abundantly clear that the tidings had long since hit the city. Allowing for the fact that the news probably moved a day faster than the cavalry, and that they had remained by the Nilus for one day after the fall of the Fortress, the city had likely had just less than two days between discovering that Caesar had overcome the Aegyptian army, and his triumphant return to the city.
The people had worked hard.
The last time Fronto had seen the Canopian Gate, in the middle of the previous month, it had been awful, and with the small skeleton force left behind, they had likely done little to improve it. The gate had been left broken and open, for Ganymedes’ men had controlled the land both within and without, and it was easier to move supplies through it without rebuilding. The walls and towers had been battered and damaged, scarred and blackened. Beyond that, the wide thoroughfare of Canopus Street had been a nightmare of broken stone, piles of refuse, pits and holes and rubble, the worst of it covered over with temporary plank bridges.
The sight that greeted the travellers suggested that the people of Alexandria, both pro- and formerly anti-Roman, had worked together at incredible pace to rebuild. The walls and gate were as new, festooned with flowers and displaying hanging banners, bearing the eagle of the house of Ptolemy and the golden bull of the Julii. It had an oddly festive look.
The street beyond had been repaired. In truth it had been a very quick bodge job done by local labourers, and any legionary engineer would have a fit if his men had carried out such work, but for locals short on time and resources, it was still impressive. The buildings along the street had been hung with flowers and drapes.
As the column, with the officers at its head, approached the gate, they had seen the populace filling side streets in droves, held back by men that looked like a combination of the palace guard and the legionaries that had been left as a tiny skeleton force in the palace. They were cheering, in Latin, in Greek, in Aegyptian, even in Aramaic. Fronto smiled, taken as always by humanity’s adaptability. Without a doubt there were men standing there, and hailing the great conquerors as saviours and liberators, who just two days ago had been part of the force left behind to pin the Romans in.
His emotions upon first sight of the next scene were more complex and a little darker. Some two hundred paces down the Canopus Street sat a golden throne surrounded by palm leaves and a crowd of courtiers and soldiers. Cleopatra, undisputed queen of Aegyptus, sat upon it, smiling at the new arrivals. Men in rich clothing, some of them certainly military commanders, stood to the sides.
The Roman officers closed on the throne, the cavalry behind them beginning to filter off and secure the city around them. Caesar brought his steed to a halt before the throne, his eyes almost level with the queen’s, due to the carefully measured height of the seat’s pedestal.
Cleopatra bowed her head slightly. Caesar did the same. Fronto failed to show any deference. His eyes had fallen upon the clear rounding of the queen’s belly, now perhaps halfway through carrying the child. The sight brought an unwanted tic to his eyelid.
‘Greetings, Caesar, consul of Rome and friend of the House of Ptolemy.’
Very good friend, Fronto thought acidly, still looking at the pregnant bulge before finally tearing his gaze from it.
‘Cleopatra, queen of Aegyptus,’ Caesar replied with a warm smile.
Fronto listened as the queen and the consul lauded one another. He vaguely heard her telling him how the city had come out with cheers in her support, when it was said that the pretenders were dead and Ganymedes defeated. He heard the officers there, clearly the surviving opposition in the city, telling Caesar how they had pledged to serve the queen and offered Rome their unconditional surrender. Various weird religious items that seemed to be important to the Aegyptians were given to Caesar in some odd symbolic ceremony. Fronto only vaguely heard the rest…
…because he could feel wave after wave of bitterness and disapproval battering them from his left. He didn’t need to turn to see the source, for he knew damn well who it was.
Cassius.
Formality finally dealt with, they passed the various parts of the city that had been bastions of one side or another and arrived at the palace. At the first opportunity, Fronto found an excuse to slip away to his room, which was largely how he’d left it, if a little cleaner, though some interfering soul had organised his things and folded the clothing. Shoving them roughly aside into a creased heap, he sank onto the bed and opened the cabinet beside it. To his relief the wine was still there, and so was the cup. That same helpful soul, undoubtedly, had placed a large ewer of cold water on the tray above the cabinet. Though it was almost certainly good water, Fronto eyed it suspiciously and poured his wine neat. Not only had there been months of dangerous water in the palace, the ever present danger of poison probably had not yet passed.
He sat there in silence, sipping the wine.
‘Here’s to a settled Aegyptus,’ he said to the empty air, holding up his cup in a toast.
‘Settled under a whore,’ said an unwelcome voice in reply.
Fronto looked up wearily to see Cassius in the doorway. ‘Unpleasant choice of word,’ he noted.
‘What else do I call a woman who sells her body to a foreign power to secure her own advancement? Especially one who was technically married.’
‘So is he,’ Fronto replied, and immediately regretted it.
‘Well it’s over, Fronto, for good or ill. The question now is what will Caesar do? Will he lay down his imperium and try to heal the republic? Or will he take his Aegyptian queen and try to found a new monarchy for Rome?’
‘Cassius, I’ve fought a battle and ridden scores of miles over the last few days. I’m tired. Can we not do this now?’
‘If not now, then when?’
‘Do you never stop pushing?’
‘Not when the republic is at stake,’ Cassius sighed. ‘I fear the influence of this oriental witch. She is a queen with her hooks in Caesar. I fear it is only a matter of time until he sees himself as a king. He’s looking far too comfortable in the role of a Ptolemaic monarch these days.’
‘The war isn’t over yet, Cassius.’
‘For me it is.’
‘What?’
The dark-haired, serious officer leaned against the door frame. ‘If there are enemies of the republic to deal with, then I shall do so without complaint, but we are at a turning point now. Pompey is gone, and his support is fragmented. The republic can be put to rights now with speech and negotiation. No more citizens need to die.’
Fronto shook his head. ‘Cato remains in Africa with plenty of support, both military and political. Afranius, the young Pompey, Petreius, Attius, and of course Scipio. As long as they remain in strength, they will never agree terms.’
‘Don’t be naïve, Fronto. All men have their price, and I fear theirs is surprisingly low. No one wants this war to drag on. I know these men. They can be brought to terms, as long as Caesar is willing to compromise.’
&
nbsp; ‘Oddly, it’s one thing he’s very good at,’ Fronto agreed. ‘For a politician and a general, he can be quite generous and merciful. But there is yet an impediment. Now that Pompey’s gone men like Scipio may be in charge, but there is one man there who will continue to rally the enemy and who will never submit. And while Titus Labienus stands against Caesar, others will join him.’
‘Didn’t Labienus used to be your friend?’
‘He was,’ Fronto said. ‘He was always a good man. A great commander and a noble man. But he is also totally inflexible. He set himself against Caesar, and Caesar will never forgive that. Not from the man who was once his right hand. Those two cannot be reconciled. There will be fighting as long as Labienus stands. The war is not over, Cassius.’
‘For me it is,’ he repeated. ‘As I said, I will fight Rome’s enemies, but I will fight no more Romans. If Caesar insists on pursuing victory without the hope for a negotiated peace, I will not be a part of it.’
‘But you won’t stand against him?’ Fronto urged.
‘Not now. Not as long as he remains a son of the republic. Should that change, I cannot say what I might do.’
Fronto shivered at the tone in the man’s voice, remembering the very same tone from two other conversations in his life, both concerning the consul: the dying breaths of his brother-in-law in Hispania, and the fallen officer Paetus, pledging revenge on Caesar. The consul was slowly but surely racking up a worrying collection of enemies. Gods willing Cassius could yet be kept from that list.
‘Anyway, I came to tell you,’ Cassius said in a lighter tone, ‘that there is to be a banquet tonight to celebrate the restoration of the queen to the throne. You slipped away before it was announced. Attendance is “expected”.’
‘You tried to cry off, then?’
Cassius barked a humourless laugh. ‘See you there.’
* * *
Alexandria, late May 47 BC
Sands of Egypt Page 33