Tactics.
He mused. Shame Galronus wasn’t here. Or Varus. Or any man with experience of cavalry warfare. Fronto had seen his share but he would be the first to admit that he was an infantry commander. Small scale or large, but always on foot. He was about as comfortable directing mounted combat as he would be triremes.
Pompey had sent his horse out in a set formation. Heavy cavalry in the centre and skirmishers on the wings. Old fashioned, but effective. The centre, heavily armed and armoured but slower, would charge like a battering ram for the enemy column, expecting to break the Caesarians through shock and sheer force, while the flanking light cavalry, much faster and more manoeuvrable , would enfold them on both wings and seal them in. The Caesarians would be unable to rally, given that they were on horseback and could hardly form a defensive square. Then they would be systematically ground down from three sides.
Except Fronto knew they were coming, and they did not know that Fronto knew and was preparing. Play them at their own game, his mind said, maliciously. He knew enough about basic tactics. He might not have a subtle cavalry mind, but he knew what surprise and panic could do. A slow smile spread across his face.
He watched as the men continued to arrive, now all the Ninth near the bridge, preparing to cross, milling about and waiting their turn. The Tenth were thinning out as they arrived and were directed to either side in the cloud of grey.
There was someone in this cloud that was just perfect for what he had in mind.
As an afterthought, he trotted over to the infantry centurion, whose men were formed in lines now, blocking the path. ‘Move forward s . I need you at the front. I need them to see you before they see us. And get those pila launched quickly. You’ll have moments at best. Throw, throw, form up. By the time they’re on you, you need to be ready and formed up.’
The centurion nodded and jogged his men forty paces forward s , keeping very professionally to formation as they ran. He wondered in passing what legion they belonged to. He’d have to find out and send them some wine if they got through this.
Finally, the figure he was anticipating appeared through the dust, and he trotted over, waving.
‘Salvius? You ready to tear a new arsehole in Pompey’s cavalry?’
The tribune’s face lit up in answer.
‘Good. We’re at the crossing of the Genusus and things are a bit tight. I’ve got the infantry formed in the centre. The Ninth are back there crossing the bridge, and I’m forming the Tenth on each flank. I’m taking the left. I want you to take the right. The moment the enemy become visible, they’ll realise that we’re ready for them but it’ll be too late. Their heavy cavalry at the centre will take two lots of pila from the legionaries and will then, hopefully, be met by contra equitas and have to stop. Their light cavalry will be expecting to enfold us and harry us, but we’re going to do that to them instead. As soon as the first pilum is thrown, we need to charge like maniacs. Don’t stop. Tear through their light cavalry and butcher as many as you can. Their heavy horse will be relying on us being surrounded, and when they realise that’s not what’s happening, they’ll either fight to the death, if they’re mad, or they’ll run like the breath of Hades is on them.’
Salvius Cursor grinned. ‘You’re no cavalry tactician, Fronto. Your plan is to ride at them screaming, kill as many as possible and hope they run away?’
Fronto frowned. It didn’t sound half as good when Salvius said it.
‘Relax. It sounds like an excellent plan. Just my kind of plan, in fact.’
Fronto rolled his eyes. ‘Then it’s probably as shit as you suggested.’
With a bark of laughter, Salvius ripped his sword from its sheath. ‘See you on a pile of Pompeian corpses, Fronto.’
With another roll of the eyes, Fronto turned and rode off to the gathering horsemen of the Tenth on the left flank . There he sat and waited. It felt strange being surrounded by cavalry, yet oddly comfortable, they being the Tenth. And despite his unfamiliarity with the type of warfare, somehow he felt he had the handle of the situation. He knew this was right. And gods, the men needed a victory right now. If Caesar was right and morale was half the battle, then he could help rebuild by fighting off Pompey’s cavalry with a truly oddball force.
Gradually the men arriving and falling in at either side thinned out, and finally the last men arrived. Those who were wounded were sent on to join the Ninth at the bridge, but the bulk of the Tenth were gathered in two wings, flanking the infantry. All was ready. And though all present continued to stamp their feet and hooves, raising dust, he began to hear the rumble of the cavalry chasing them down insisting itself over the top.
Here they went.
He kept his eyes on the vague shapes of the infantry close by, a crowd of loosely-spaced ghosts in the grey. He could hear the senior centurion. ‘Ready…’
Knowing that a lot of this rested on timing, he raised his hand for the signal. Behind him every centurion in the T enth did the same, ready to pass the signal so that every horse moved at once. If they were too slow, they would end up mired in two lines. If they were too early, they would spoil the surprise. He felt his heart thundering.
His hand trembled with the effort of being held aloft.
‘Ready those pila,’ the centurion said.
There was a long, horrible pause, filled with the ever-growing sound of approaching hooves in their thousands.
Fronto’s teeth ground together.
‘Now,’ the centurion yelled and even as he bellowed ‘ Pila…. Cast! ,’ Fronto dropped his hand and the Tenth charged.
From his position at the fore of the mounted wing, he had an unprecedented view of the results of his plan. Kudos to the centurion of infantry and his men. They had been as fast as any unit Fronto had ever seen. The cavalry suddenly emerged through the white cloud as vague shapes and even as they did so four hundred pila plunged into the mass. Horses reared, horses fell, men were thrown. Panic flooded across the enemy in a heartbeat. The carnage was impressive, caused more by horsemen riding their fellows down than the pila themselves. The cohort dropped into formation like a machine, shields locked and remaining pila jutting from between the shields like an iron hedge , an obstacle no horse would be eager to close on.
The Illyrian heavy horse charge ground to a halt in an instant, leaping their own dead in desperation and trying to haul on their reins before they fell foul of the legionaries. Any man who failed and came too close was rewarded with multiple stab wounds from the projecting pila.
Their attack had faltered, but it could still rally. Fronto and Salvius had to see it fail. Even as the chaos struck at the centre, Fronto and his men hurtled forward s at breakneck speed . The enemy suddenly emerged from the white cloud like ghost s coalescing in the firmament, and in that moment, Fronto knew he’d been right and they’d won.
The skirmishing light cavalry on the enemy flanks were barely armoured at all, many just in a grey or white tunic. Some had helmets, more hats, more still were bare-headed. Some had small, round shields and either an axe or a sword strapped at the side, but all were armed with a light ash cavalry spear. Had they been ready, those spears could have been lethal, but they were not ready. They had expected to ride along the flanks of a terrified force, hurling their spears and harrying them w hile the c entre did its work. Instead the centre had become a meat grinder, and the men they had expected to harry were instead hurtling toward s them like a battering ram. Fronto’s men were all armoured in chain and equipped with pila and swords.
The two forces hit and the quality of both men and equipment became clear in moments. Though both forces were matched in speed and strength, Fronto’s were heavy and determined. They carved a great gouge through the centre of the Pompeian auxiliaries, their swords rising and falling, pila stabbing out like cavalry spears, dropped as they became useless and replaced with drawn swords.
In ten heartbeats they had broken the light cavalry. The rear ranks of Pompeians, as yet uncommitted, were turning, and
running. Fronto’s legionaries were cutting through them like a wheat harvest. They had expected cavalry. They had found the Tenth.
It was over in short order. The flank, shattered and panicked by Fronto’s unexpected charge, had turned and fled, and the legionaries killed as many with their backs turned as they had in the initial clash. Disciplined men, they kept formation and , as the light cavalry ran, they declined to follow. Fronto could hardly estimate numbers at this stage, but he’d be willing to bet they’d killed more than a third of the enemy in mere moments with minimal casualties to their own force.
He watched in satisfaction as the enemy light cavalry disappeared into their own dust cloud. The heavy Illyrian armoured horsemen were close behind, routed by their failed charge, numerous dead, and the impenetrable wall of the legionaries that held them at bay. A similar tale had clearly played out at the far flank, for a cloud of dust was all that could be made out of the light horse at that side too.
A victory. A very solid victory. It might not win the war, and it would make little difference in grand terms of numbers, but the morale that had been an all-important factor at the end of the last debacle had changed entirely. Across the north bank of the Genusus, every face wore a look of triumph and satisfaction, while utter panic would be the order of the day among Pompey’s cavalry. And better, some way distant, miles to the north, Pompey’s infantry would be marching slowly in their wake, and their own morale would suffer when they met their own cavalry coming the other way in defeat. Best of all, Pompey would shortly learn of it. And with Pompey’s temper, he would be unrestrained in his fury, which would only unsettle his men all the more.
And now they would have time to cross the Genusus in peace.
His gaze crossed the river once more, though it was hard to make much out through the cloud of grey. There were the distinct signs of Caesar’s army making camp. Whether or not that was a good idea, at least they would be across the river from Pompey, and at the worst they could demolish the bridge to halt pursuit. And every man would feel better to be in camp together, safe from enemy forces for now.
He turned at the shouting of his name, and blanched at the sight of Salvius Cursor. The tribune managed to get coated in blood and gore from head to foot every time he drew his sword, but this was the first time Fronto had seen a horse in a similar state. The animal looked horrified. Where did Salvius find so much blood?
‘Nicely done, sir,’ the tribune grinned. ‘I think we bought some time.’
‘Agreed. And now we cross and rest for a while. And we consider how much luckier we are than Pompey, for our supplies are on the road ahead of us, waiting, while his will be trundling along slowly from Dyrrachium, desperate to catch up. ’
Chapt er 15
Caesar stood, silent and watchful on the raised rampart., his officers in attendance, Fronto busily tapping his fingers irritably and impatiently on the bronzed plates of his belt.
‘ Give the word,’ the general said, ‘quietly and carefully. No music, no muster . Just have everyone ready.’
The four couriers standing at the rear of the group saluted and scattered like dandelion seeds in a breeze, leaving the officers alone.
‘I still don’t understand why we allowed him to camp at all , General,’ one of the junior officers said, echoing Fronto’s frustration with the whole situation.
‘Because,’ Caesar replied patiently, not taking his eyes off the Pompeian camp on the far side of the Genusus river, ‘sometimes one has to give ground a little to find a bet ter position.’
‘I’m not sure I follow, sir.’
Caesar paused, eyes still on the camp before him, and Fronto heaved an impatient sigh and answered for the general.
‘We beat back his advance cavalry and gave them a fright, but Pompey is tenacious and clever. It was only a brief setback. His horse would be able to cross the river close by, at one of several fordable points, and we would be fighting off attacks like that one all the way to Apollonia. And we woul dn’t be that lucky every time, s o we give him time to gather and believe he’s going to face us properly. Now he’s settling in ready to deal with us.’
‘Precisely sir,’ the young officer said uncertainly. ‘That seems like a step backwards to me, when we had the jump on him.’
Fronto shook his head. ‘He’s not ready for us yet. The bulk of his army is here, but his su pplies are still trundling along back there somewhere. It’ll take a day or more before they’re anywhere near. But what don’t you see across there?’
The young man frowned and squinted, scanning the camp. After a long pause, he coughed. ‘I don’t know, sir. I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Look at our cavalry corrals, then look over at Pompey’s.’
The man did so and his brow creased further. ‘They’re half empty.’
‘Exactly. Pompey thinks we mean to deny him the crossing. He thinks we’re going to face him here . He’s under the impression that we’re settled in. And because his supply situation is so thin right now, he’s sent every man he can spare out foraging, gathering supplies and cutting timber and the like. Probably the equivalent of a legion of men have been sent out since dawn to the nearest good woodlands, and to any f arm that still has crops ripe and ready or any town or village with a bulging granary . And his cavalry are out , too . They are spread far and wide along that bank looking for supplies and heading back north to locate the wagons and hurry them along. Pompey’s about to hit the roof with irritation when he sees what’s happened.’
‘Because we’re moving, sir?’
‘Precisely. Just as we dropped and ran unexpectedly at the siege lines and he was taken unawares, we’re doing it again. We don’t have to worry about our supply wagons because they’re already way ahead, closing on Apollonia, along with the wounded. And our men are equipped light for a fast march. As soon as Caesar ’s next word is given, our army will move fast. Pompey’s, on the other hand, is spread all over the countryside. It’ll take him half a day just to call back his cavalry. By the time he’s got his legions across the bridge to follow and brought in all his scattered men, we’ll have at least a day on him. ’
‘If you understand what we’re doing,’ Antonius said, flicking a glance across at Fronto, ‘why are you so twitchy?’
‘Because I understand it, but I don’t like it. The idea of running away from him , even tactically, doesn’t sit well with me. Pompey’s clever. It’s all well and good pulling a fast one on him, but there’s always a good chance he’ll anticipate something and have a surprise ready for us. This isn’t like facing Gauls or ordinary commanders.’
‘You sound like you admire him,’ Sulla said dismissively.
‘Of course he does,’ Caesar cut in. ‘And with good reason. Pompey has had more military success than any living Roman, including myself. He is not to be taken lightly. And whether we like him or not, he is a Roman hero and deserving of both admiration and respect. When this is all over, and we have put his army in place and removed those rebel senators in authority, Pompey will be allowed to retire with every honour of a Roman general intact. But first we must beat him. And as Fronto noted, he is clever. The only way to beat him with our inferior force is to continually throw him off balance and push him into doing something precipitous of which we can take advantage. His temper may be his undoing.’
Fronto nodded. ‘And that’s why I don’t like this plan. Fall back river by river. Sooner or later he will tire of following us as we plan and he’ll do something unexpected.’
‘ We fall back as far as Apollonia,’ Caesar replied, ‘and there we garrison the place with the wounded, while we turn and head southeast into Achaea. Pompey will have two choices then. Either he launches a desperate, badly-provisioned attack, which will be difficult and costly, or he gives up the chase. His distance from his supply line will be too great and he will not be able to follow further.’
‘Either way, we win,’ Antonius added. ‘If he tries to stop us, his troops will be hungry, unhappy and
playing catch up, while we will be well provisioned, in good morale and able to choose the ground. If he turns away, he gives us time to heal and strengthen.’
‘Be prepared for a surprise,’ Fronto said darkly. ‘Nothing with Pompey is quite so simple.’
Caesar turned, peering out across their own camp. The legions were ready. The tents had all been taken down and what was required stowed for transport. All that could be seen from the Pompeian camp would be the ramparts, which were still manned, and the corral full of horses. They were about to get a surprise.
‘Give the order to move, gentlemen,’ Caesar said, and turned, dropping down the rough steps cut in the earth bank and crossing to his horse that stood nearby, held by a soldier and close to the mounts of each other officer.
Fronto saluted and limped down the s teps, wincing, then over to Bucephalus, where he mounted at the wrong side in order to favour his good knee, helped up by the soldier who’d held the reins. Fifty heartbeats later, he was at the head of the Tenth, alongside Salvius Cursor and Atenos, giving the signal. Across the camp the silence was suddenly broken by a mu ltitude of centurions’ whistles and the legions began to move at double pace from the outset , swarming over the low south rampart and racing away towards Apollonia. The men at the walls facing Pompey’s camp across the river dropped and ran, falling in at the rear of their legions as they moved off. Out to both flanks, the cavalry surged into the corrals, mounting with the professionalism of natural horsemen and immediately riding off, falling into their units on the move for speed.
Thus did Caesar’s army break camp at the Genusus and move off without warning, leaving Pompey’s army taken by surprise, unprepared and scattered far and wide.
* * *
Fronto passed through the north gate of Apollonia with a sense of tense relief. It seemed that Caesar’s plan had unfolded just as anticipated. Following their flight from the Genusus, leaving Pompey to flounder around desperately and shake hi s fist in anger, they had force- marched eight miles and crossed a lesser river – one of the numerous such in this wide, flat agricultural region – and camped on the south side once more.
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