Sands of Egypt

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Sands of Egypt Page 35

by S. J. A. Turney


  Calvinus seemed somewhat surprised and taken aback. He straightened.

  ‘Caesar, I have the bulk of the Thirty Sixth, numbering approximately three thousand. Beyond that there are surviving vexillations of other legions counting a total of not more than one and a half thousand. Given time, a further thousand allies could be drummed up locally, though not in time for a march on the morrow.’

  Caesar drummed his fingers on his belt. ‘With my current force, that brings our strength up to perhaps seven thousand. Given their veteran status, this is beginning to look like a strong force to field against the Bosporan invader.’

  Calvinus frowned, shaking his head. ‘With respect, Caesar, even after the losses Pharnaces suffered at our hands at Nicopolis, he will still be able to put a force of near twenty thousand in the field. Moreover, his men are also veterans and in high spirits. Marching on him with a force of seven thousand is tantamount to suicide.’

  He winced at the end of this, well aware that he was still riding the ignominy of failure against that same enemy.

  ‘We do what we must with what we have, Domitius,’ Caesar said flatly. ‘Though I do not intend to meet Pharnaces with quite such uneven numbers. We will bring our number over ten thousand with the aid of Galatia.’

  Calvinus’ frown deepened so much that his brow threw his eyes into shadow. ‘Caesar, I strongly advise that you move to the west coast and bring in Mithridates, skirting Galatia entirely.’

  The consul shook his head. ‘Mithridates has served well already. He was instrumental in our victory in Aegyptus, and he now has his own house to put in order. I will not lay upon him demands that will weaken his strength in his own lands, nor risk his ongoing goodwill by asking too much too often. No, Mithridates is not within my sights. Galatia is our next stop. It is, after all, directly between us and Pharnaces according to the latest reports, unless you have any contradictory news for me?’

  ‘No, Caesar. Pharnaces and his army wait in the highlands north of Cappadocia. He compounds his vile actions in his victory. It is said that he tortured his Roman prisoners to death and that execution has become the norm for any Roman found within his lands, whether they be soldier or civilian. For sure, Pharnaces must pay, but a march through Cappadocia and Galatia will likely weaken your force, rather than strengthen it, Consul. Deiotarus of Galatia is no ally of yours.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘Deiotarus is a gamble, but I feel he is the correct choice.’

  ‘Consul, Deiotarus was so far inside Pompey’s purse he was buried in coin. He took the field against us at Pharsalus as part of Pompey’s force. He has ever been your enemy. Marching up to him and requesting his support is madness. He is most likely to fall upon you with his army, and then seek the adoration of your enemies in Africa.’

  Caesar continued to nod. ‘Of this I am aware. But only bitter fools now place themselves against me. Men like Cato. Pompey is no more, after all. Deiotarus may have sided with Pompey against me, but he has never wavered in his loyalty to Rome. He and I may have been enemies, but his reason for that is gone, and he will help Rome against her foe. Of that I am convinced.’

  Calvinus sagged. ‘Then if you are set on such a course, Caesar, at least march into Galatia in strength and prepared for a fight.’

  The general smiled. ‘All the strength we can muster in one night, Domitius. If you would be so kind as to show us to suitable lodgings, and send out the call for your legions to muster, we march on at dawn.’

  * * *

  Blucium, Galatia July 28th 47 BC

  The hill town of Blucium sat atop a strong rise on the northern end of a narrow valley, amid high, bleak-looking peaks. Its walls were old and exotic, its buildings somehow oddly eastern looking. Fronto shifted in the saddle once more. He was twitchy.

  They had been watchful and prepared, from the moment they had passed beyond the bounds of Roman Syria into Cappadocia, close to the lands now controlled by Pharnaces’ men, skirting their territory and making for independent Galatia. Some officers shared Calvinus’ worry about the danger of approaching the staunchly Pompeian king. That he retained his independence in a region where Pharnaces seemed intent on conquest suggested that Deiotarus already had some treaty in place with the Bosporan aggressor.

  Fronto was acutely aware that however much they might be prepared, if Deiotarus had designs on war, he could very easily spring a trap here in this valley, and the Roman force would take some time to put into battle order, without even considering artillery and the like.

  His memory furnished him with unhelpful memories of their journey across Achaea the previous year, between Dyrrachium and Pharsalus. How many towns had they come across, sitting behind high walls and closed gates and denying the general? Blucium looked just like them to Fronto, and there was no sign of the gate opening as the officers walked their horses slowly up the sloping road towards the city, the Galatian king’s capital.

  ‘Give the signal to deploy the legions, Consul,’ Hirtius urged Caesar as they neared.

  The general shook his head. ‘Wait.’

  As the army in the valley below slowed and came to a halt to a chorus of whistle blasts, the officers came close to the city’s southern gate and stopped at the consul’s signal. Salvius Cursor filled the silence, barking orders at his praetorians, who spread out in a protective cordon, men close enough to throw themselves in front of the general with a raised shield if required. After all, they were now within missile shot of the walls and towers, and though there was no sign of life up there, neither the tension nor the threat diminished.

  They sat in silence for a time, the only sounds the distant din of the army forming ordered lines, the gentle hum and sizzle of bees and sun-seared land, and the kites soaring on thermals, trilling and screeching in warbling tones. Finally, once even the legions had come to a tense standing silence, the quiet was suddenly filled with a ligneous thud and the sound of creaking iron. The gate of Blucium swung slowly open, its movement stately.

  Fronto felt himself tense, anticipating danger.

  After a further pause, a shape appeared in the shade of the gateway. Slowly, it emerged into the light. A figure on horseback. Just one.

  Fronto stared, narrow eyed, uncertain what this was. The other officers were equally cautious and confused. They watched, many hands going to sword hilts as the single rider began to descend towards them. He was an older man, dressed in a plain grey tunic with a beige cloak over his back, head bare. Fronto had to remind himself that the Galatians were related to the Gauls he had fought both with and against for a decade, as he realised the man wore long trousers in the Gallic style. His face was bearded and his hair long and curly with a single braid to the side, like some odd fusion of Greek and Gaulish styles. Indeed, as he came closer, they could see that the entire ensemble resembled the garb of a standard Gaulish rider, yet the patterns at hem and neck were of a very traditional Greek design. Very odd.

  But not as odd as the simple fact of one low-born peasant riding out to meet a consul of Rome at the head of his army. The rider came to a halt not far from the outer praetorians, and bowed his head low.

  ‘Deiotarus,’ Caesar said quietly, sombrely, in greeting.

  Fronto blinked. Surely not? This man was a commoner. Even his jewellery was plain and of low quality. The rider raised his head.

  ‘Consul.’

  ‘Perhaps you could explain for the benefit of my somewhat mystified officers,’ the general said, gesturing to the rider.

  ‘I offer myself to you as supplicant, Caesar,’ the man said. ‘Not as a king, but as a citizen of Galatia.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘Humility is a rare and valued quality in a leader, Deiotarus, but perhaps this is a step too far?’

  The king shrugged. ‘With news of your approach, and the knowledge of my past, I found myself in a position with several options, Caesar. Perhaps I launch a pre-emptive strike against you, knowing that you may well be here to put an end to my rule? But in doing so, I would break solemn vows I made
to Zeus and Apollo both, to support the republic, and I am not a man given to breaking vows. Moreover, there is a dangerous aggressor in this region with whom I have enjoyed at best a tense stand-off in recent months, following a military defeat at his hands. Should I fight a costly battle against you, I would open my kingdom to the depredations of Pharnaces.’

  Caesar simply nodded.

  ‘Or, of course,’ the Galatian went on, ‘I could lead out my army and greet you as I would have truly preferred, as an equal. Representative of Rome and leader of a great force here to put an end to Pharnaces. My own court and generals would also have preferred that. My current garb is not popular with them. But to do so to you, a man to whom I have so recently been opposed, and whose banner I sought at Pharsalus with blade bared, would have been presumptuous at best. Childishly hopeful in truth.’

  Another nod from Caesar. Deiotarus gave a shrug.

  ‘And so I come to you as supplicant. I place my fate and that of my people at your mercy knowing that you are capable of both great clemency and powerful revenge. I do this that if vengeance is your heart’s course, it be aimed at me, as the leader of these people, and not at they.’

  ‘Would you like to explain your loyalties of late before I contemplate matters?’ Caesar said easily.

  ‘I have of necessity taken arms with your enemies, Caesar. Pompey and others. But I would remind you that we are far from your power centre here, Consul, and surrounded by fractious peoples and hungry enemies. This region was Pompey’s heartland for many years. It is only natural for a man in my position to side with the most advantageous power for the future of my own people. Now, with Pompey gone, and Caesar the power in the east, I come to you for the strength of my kingdom. I have not been a supporter of Pompey, Caesar, but a supporter of Rome, whose rod of rule was here wielded by Pompey.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘Your vow to Apollo and Jove is enough for me. I ride for Pontus and the fastnesses of Pharnaces the invader. I will end his reign of terror in this land and impose once more the rule of law. In doing so, I would of course value the support of the Kingdom of Galatia, who have long been the allies of Rome. Deiotarus, King of Galatia, will you lead your army with us to destroy our mutual enemy?’

  The king bowed his head, and oddly, to Fronto, few men had ever managed to look quite so regal, even with robes of state, as this simple, humble man did now.

  ‘I have an army of four thousand heavy infantry, and less than a thousand horse, who can be mustered presently. More can be gathered, but it will take time. I did not wish to field too large a force here, lest I be seen by yourself as an aggressor.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘Your men will be invaluable. With my own force, we will still be short of the numbers Pharnaces can field, but I am confident of our men’s strength and morale, and of our officers’ quality. Were the enemy three to our one, I would still feel sure of victory.’

  For the first time, King Deiotarus smiled. ‘My men will tear out their throats in the name of Rome, Consul.’

  ‘Return to your palace, King of Galatia, and attire yourself correctly for rule and for war.’

  Deiotarus bowed his head once more and threw up a hand in signal to the city. Despite himself, Fronto flinched. He had seen enough betrayal in his life that the simple gesture immediately filled his imagination with fears that the signal would have artillery and archers along the wall top release missile after missile, down into the Roman contingent.

  No such thing happened, of course. Figures did appear at the parapet, but they were gripping standards. The eagle of Galatia snapped and fluttered all along the walls, interspersed with the eagle of Rome, Pompeian standards carried over from the days they had been fielded against Caesar at Pharsalus. Now they were in support of him.

  Deiotarus, regal in his humility, turned his horse and rode back towards the city, beckoning only once for the Romans to follow him. Salvius Cursor looked to Caesar for approval, who nodded and gestured for the staff officers to accompany him, urging his own horse on after the king.

  Fronto tried not to imagine just how easy it would be for a treacherous king to have a deadly ambush set within the city gates, his eyes strafing the parapet in search of drawn bows and primed artillery, yet finding none. As they passed beneath the great heavy gate and into the city itself, he tensed, prepared for a sudden attack, or the gates to close behind them, trapping them within. None of it happened.

  The soldiers Fronto could see inside the city stood by the sides of the street, at attention and with a professional stance. It seemed odd to him. These were a strange people, both Greek and Gaul wrapped up in one bundle, with hints of Syrian and Pontic and more thrown in. They had Gallic beards and Greek hair, Germanic braids and Syrian skin, a true mix of cultures. But the thing that really surprised him was the soldiers themselves. Had he not known who they were, he would have assumed them a Roman legion, even down to the madder-dyed red tunics and the pila they shouldered. Indeed, the only thing that readily marked them out was their shields, which were painted with the jagged stylised eagle of Galatia, and their unit names in Greek text.

  The people of Blucium cheered as they passed, the only silent figures being the soldiers – these odd Galatian legionaries – who stood watching with professional stoicism. Fronto finally began to relax as they neared the royal palace at the heart of the city. More soldiers awaited them here, including officers who looked so like the consul’s staff that they could easily be mistaken for them. Citizens cheered and laughed, and had their higher classes worn togas and forgone the long trousers that seemed the norm, Fronto might have assumed they were in a Roman city.

  As they entered the gateway of the palace itself, the king dismounted, the Romans following suit. The king bade them follow one of the officers while he changed his clothes, and would meet them in the hall of state. As he disappeared, one of the officers stepped forwards and addressed them in perfect Latin.

  ‘If you would care to follow me, sirs?’

  As some lackey took their horses away, the officer led them in through an impressive door and into a wide vestibule lined with trophies and banners, lit by braziers and oil lamps, providing a rather oppressive heat in a room that would otherwise have been blessedly cool after the hot Syrian sun. Through another corridor they were escorted, and finally into a great hall of decorated marble with more banners, and a large throne on a raised dais.

  A man who looked disturbingly like a druid to Fronto stood close to the throne, leaning on a tall staff, and finally the officer stopped and turned to them. ‘I apologise for the nature of your wait, sirs. We were not sure whether we would be hosting you or not, and a banquet seemed an unlikely proposition. I can have couches brought for you, and food?’

  Caesar shook his head. ‘This is perfectly adequate, thank you. The king will be with us shortly?’

  The officer nodded. ‘His majesty will be prepared swiftly.’

  Fronto stepped out of the line of officers. ‘Might I pry into something?’

  The officer’s eyebrow rose. ‘Go on?’

  ‘You faced us among Pompey’s forces at Pharsalus, yet I do not remember seeing your men on the field. I’m sure I would have remembered them. Yet they are clearly a legion. They might so easily be one of Caesar’s own.’

  The officer smiled. ‘We were among Pompey Magnus’ forces, Legate, yes. In fact half our unit were committed in the thick of the action alongside Rome’s legions, though you would be unlikely to identify them in the press. The rest were held back in reserve and managed to depart the field without pursuit and destruction. This is why we can bring only four thousand men to your aid. Without wishing it to sound like a recrimination, your own men destroyed the other half.’

  Fronto nodded sadly. ‘Such is the peril of civil war.’

  The man glanced down for a moment and then lifted his gaze to Fronto once more. ‘As to their similarity with your own forces, this dates back some years, to Pompey’s first contact with the kingdom. The king’s fascination with the
efficiency of Pompey’s legions led to a complete reorganisation of the royal guard. Our numbers remained the same, some eight thousand, but we were modelled on the Roman legion. Pompey lent us instructors, armourers, engineers and more. Within a handful of years our guard went from being modelled on the forces of Alexander, the scourge of Persia, to being a reflection of Rome’s legions.’

  He looked oddly embarrassed for a moment. ‘Of course, after initial successes in the Mithridatic wars alongside your legions, we have encountered something of a losing streak recently, first against yourselves at Pharsalus and then more recently against Pharnaces. Our men remain optimistic and strong, however, despite those losses.’

  Fronto smiled. ‘They seem very professional. You are to be commended. And the Pompeian centre at Pharsalus gave us a real struggle, so there is no cause for chagrin there.’

  ‘Our forces will make a good showing in the coming days. The men are twitching for an opportunity to give Pharnaces of Pontus a sound beating and, Pharsalus notwithstanding, they are ever comfortable standing alongside the legions of Rome.’

  Fronto turned and glanced out of the door at the men standing there, straight and professional and reeking of military might. For the first time since they had left Aegyptus with just one legion, he felt that they might just be able to beat Pharnaces, despite his advantage of numbers.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Taouion, July 30th 47 BC

  The ancient city of Taouion was one of Deiotarus’ more important fortresses and production centres. Like the capital, it sat on the crest of a hill, a weird echo of Gaul imprinted with Greek style, where it lorded over a wide valley and numerous peaks pocked with rich mines. No wonder these lands were continually contested and fought over, Fronto mused, looking at the resources they produced.

 

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