The Silver Eagle tllc-2

by Ben Kane

  ‘I’ll offer to hunt again this evening. We can just melt away into the bush,’ muttered Romulus. ‘They’ll never find us once it gets dark.’

  Concealing his unease, Tarquinius gave him a brief smile. ‘Good idea.’

  The dhow sailed closer as the sun climbed into the sky, and the Ethiopian coastline became clearer to the eye. There weren’t many trees, but there were far more signs of life than in the Arabian desert. Birds wheeled in great circles above while a herd of unfamiliar-looking antelope drank from a stream a little way inland.

  Following the breeze, Ahmed ordered the steersmen to set a course north. The sight of greenery had put the Nubian in good temper. Where there was vegetation, there were animals. And the men who hunted them. Hopefully, they might encounter a vessel full of ivory in these waters.

  Romulus’ mind was devising their escape when he heard a shout: ‘Ship ahead!’ He glanced around idly, and his heart leapt into his mouth.

  About a quarter of a mile ahead lay a prominent headland. Emerging from behind it was the square sail and distinctive predatory shape of a trireme. He stared again. There was no mistaking the curved stern, the three banks of oars, and the enormous eye painted on the side of the prow to threaten the enemies it approached. Its decks were lined with marines, armed similarly to legionaries. Four deck catapults were already being loaded with massive arrows and stone balls.

  Tarquinius also looked amazed. ‘Romans on this sea?’

  ‘Ship dead ahead!’ came the cry again.

  Romulus didn’t know what to think. Previously, the Republic had always confined its naval presence to the Mediterranean. This new departure had to be an attempt to protect the valuable trade that the corsairs had been preying on. He grimaced. There was every chance that the dhow would not be viewed in a friendly manner. Which did not bode well for them.

  Ahmed pointed in alarm. ‘What in the name of all the gods is that?’

  ‘It’s a Roman fighting ship,’ replied Tarquinius. ‘A trireme.’

  ‘Is it fast?’

  ‘Very,’ answered Romulus grimly.

  The unmistakable sound of a drum carried across the waves. Its rhythm was rapid, triggering memories of the voyage to Asia Minor. They had been seen.

  The rowers at the oars responded to the booming command, and the trireme’s speed began to pick up. It surged forward, creating a large bow wave. The top of the bronze ram at its prow became visible, and even those who had never seen one could guess what the huge mass of metal would do to another vessel.

  ‘Come about,’ yelled Ahmed. ‘Quickly!’

  The two steersmen needed little encouragement. Frantically they leaned on the heavy steering oars, slowing the dhow in the water and beginning a wide turning circle.

  Romulus clenched his jaw. It was slow, far too slow. He stared at the trireme’s low-slung shape with morbid fascination. Even faster drumbeats filled the air. The Roman vessel was now in red-hot pursuit. By trying to flee, Ahmed had probably sealed their fate. There was little chance of escape.

  From the look on the Nubian’s face, he was thinking the same thing.

  ‘Time to leave,’ Romulus whispered to Tarquinius, who was muttering a prayer. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Hastily the two friends donned their armour and tightened their belts. Although Romulus’ mail shirt and Tarquinius’ hide breastplate were heavy, the protection they granted would be needed in the days to come. And it was only a few hundred paces to shore. That distance was nothing to worry about. After four years at sea, Romulus had learned to swim well and Tarquinius was a natural.

  The haruspex shoved a water bottle into his hands and together they moved to the side of the ship. They had to act fast. The trireme was already moving significantly faster than their dhow, and over such a short distance, it posed a lethal danger. A hundred and twenty disciplined oarsmen rowing in unison could rapidly bring it to the speed of a running man. If the pirate ship did not complete its turn soon, it would be run down and sunk.

  ‘You miserable bastard, Tarquinius! Look what you have guided us to!’ shouted Ahmed. He spun round to deliver more abuse. ‘Trying to escape now?’ he screeched, drawing his sword. ‘Kill them both!’

  Men’s heads turned, and their faces twisted with fury as they saw two of their erstwhile comrades about to jump ship.

  ‘Come on,’ urged Romulus, swinging himself up on to the wooden side rail.

  The Nubian sprinted across the deck, waving his cutlass and screaming with rage. He was aiming straight for the haruspex — who tripped and fell awkwardly to one knee.

  ‘Jump!’ shouted Tarquinius.

  As Romulus turned back to help his friend, he lost his balance and tumbled backwards — into the sea.

  Chapter XXV: Pharsalus

  Eastern Greece, summer 48 BC

  Brutus reined in his bay horse, which was growing tetchy in the heat. The flies buzzing around its head were no help. ‘Steady,’ he whispered, patting its neck. ‘It will soon begin.’

  Around him were six cohorts of legionaries. Like all Caesar’s units, they were understrength, but these were supremely fit, crack troops. Their obliquely angled position to the rear of Caesar’s triplex acies formation belied the importance of their task, Brutus thought proudly. Hidden away, he and his men were Caesar’s secret weapon.

  After nearly a week of standoff on the plain of Thessaly, Pompey had finally decided to give battle. Moving away from the foothills to the north that morning, his eleven legions had formed up in three lines, the classic configuration; this was copied at once by Caesar’s nine. Although Caesar’s army matched the width of his enemy’s, the difference in their sizes was already obvious. Weakened by their heavy losses in Gaul, his veteran cohorts were stretched painfully thin. In contrast, Pompey’s were at full complement, meaning he had about forty-five thousand infantry to his opponent’s twenty-two. His cavalry, swelled by volunteers from all over the east, outnumbered Caesar’s by nearly seven to one. The figures were daunting, but Brutus’ general was not about to avoid confrontation. While his army was much smaller than Pompey’s, all Caesar’s legionaries were seasoned fighters; in contrast, many of their opponents were raw recruits.

  It was an interesting yet potentially disastrous situation, thought Brutus nervously. Would Caesar’s gamble pay off? Only the gods know, he reflected, asking Mithras for his aid while there was still time. For battle would shortly commence. Both sides were ready now. Pompey’s right flank was protected by the River Enipeus, which ran roughly west-east, while nearly all his superior horse was massed on the left. Today there was to be no classical pincer movement, using cavalry to encircle the enemy on both flanks.

  Like any military officer with wits, Brutus knew what was about to unfold instead.

  As the opposing legionaries went head to head, the Republican horsemen would drive through Caesar’s small numbers of cavalry, opening up his rear. There they would wreak havoc, cause widespread panic and potentially win the battle. Unless Caesar’s risky venture paid off.

  Still nothing happened. The summer sun was climbing in the sky, and although the air was warm, it was nowhere near what it would be by midday. Almost unwilling to fight, the two armies watched each other in silence. When they finally met, Roman would face Roman in unprecedented numbers. Armed and dressed similarly, attacking in the same formations, brothers would fall upon each other while neighbours fought to the death. The momentousness of this confrontation was obvious to even the lowliest foot soldier.

  Yet it was time that things were resolved, thought Brutus impatiently. More than eighteen months after Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon, the two generals had still not fought a decisive battle. Italy was not to be the battlefield, either. Shocked, unprepared for Caesar’s daring, Pompey and most of the Senate had fled from Rome, foolishly leaving the treasury contents in the temple of Saturn. They convened at Brundisium, the main jumping point to Greece, where, furiously pursued by the newly enriched Caesar, the
y were nearly caught in March. But after an attempt to blockade the port failed, Pompey, his entourage and entire army had made the short crossing without harm.

  Brutus smiled. As ever, his leader had not sat around for long.

  Keen to secure his rear from the seven Pompeian legions in Hispania, Caesar marched north and west, besieging Massilia and its Republican garrison on the way. The city did not fall quickly so, leaving Brutus and Caius Trebonius to finish the job, he had continued to Hispania. After a frustrating campaign of four months, Pompey’s forces there were finally defeated and assimilated into Caesar’s own. Marcus Petreius and Lucius Afrianus, their leaders, had been pardoned on the condition that they did not take up arms against him again.

  Brutus scowled. He would not have been so merciful. ‘Great Mithras, let me meet those treacherous dogs today,’ he muttered. It was unlikely on a battlefield this large, Brutus thought, but he could hope. Petreius and Afrianus were here. The instant they had been released, the pair had gathered what troops they could and sailed to join their master. Two other men whom Brutus badly wanted to meet were Cassius Longinus, the tribune and ex-army officer, and Titus Labienus, Caesar’s former trusted cavalry commander. In a surprise move, they had both switched sides to join the Republicans and were present on the field too. Traitors all, he thought.

  Pompey in turn had not been idle while the conflict in Hispania went on, assembling nine legions of Roman citizens in Greece. Added to these were the two veteran legions from Syria, and allied troops numbering three thousand archers from Crete and Sparta, twelve hundred slingers and a polyglot force of seven thousand cavalry. Every city-state ruler and minor prince within five hundred miles had sent a contingent to join the Republican forces.

  When Caesar had returned to Italy in December, he received the news of this, the host that was awaiting him in Greece. Keen to prevent further bloodshed, he made several attempts to open negotiations with Pompey. All were swiftly rebuffed. The Republicans had decided that they would settle for nothing less than their enemy’s total defeat. Caesar’s response was to carry the war to Greece without delay. Now Brutus laughed out loud, uncaring that his men looked at him strangely. Caesar had ignored all his officers’ advice and set sail from Brundisium. At the time, it seemed like utter madness: seven under-strength legions sailing at night, in the middle of winter, across a strait controlled entirely by the Pompeian navy. Like so many of Caesar’s daring tactics, though, it had worked; the next day his entire host landed unopposed on the western coast of Greece.

  Caught napping by this, the wily Pompey then avoided battle for months, knowing that his supply situation was far superior to that of Caesar’s. With limitless ships to provide food and equipment to his army, he could afford to march up and down the land while his opponent could not. Boring the tactic might seem, but Pompey knew that Caesar’s men could not live on fresh air. They needed grain, and meat. It was during this lean time that Brutus really grew to respect their opponent. If the rumours were to be believed, Pompey was under constant pressure from the numerous senators and politicians he had in tow. The Optimates, Brutus thought scornfully. There isn’t a real soldier among them. Already resentful of Pompey’s position as supreme Republican commander, these hangers-on wanted a pitched battle and a quick victory.

  So did Caesar, and when Pompey would not give it to him, he attempted to force the issue at Dyrrachium. Although by then his forces had been augmented by four more legions, it was a painful memory. The attempt to recreate Caesar’s victory at Alesia had seemed promising initially. More than fifteen miles of fortifications hemmed Pompey against the coast while dams were built to block the streams. A similar length of opposing defences prevented Caesar from advancing, but the combined constructions deprived the Republican army of water for its soldiers and fodder for its horses. By July, the bodies of hundreds of pack animals lay rotting in the sun, increasing the risk of disease among Pompey’s troops. If something wasn’t done, men would begin to die of cholera and dysentery. Meanwhile Caesar’s legionaries, who were short of supplies, ground up charax vegetable roots and mixed them with milk. The resultant dough was baked into loaves, and in a measured taunt of Pompey’s men, some of this bitter-tasting food was tossed into the enemy lines.

  Fortunately for Pompey, it was then that two of Caesar’s Gaulish cavalry commanders defected. Discovering from them that parts of his enemy’s southern fortifications were incomplete, Pompey launched a daring attack at dawn the next day. Six legions took part in the massive assault. Uncharacteristically, Caesar refused to admit that his blockade was failing and launched a counter-attack, which failed miserably. Outnumbered and demoralised, his legionaries had fled the field en masse. Not even the presence of their legendary commander could stop the rout. One signifer was so panicked that when confronted by Caesar, he actually inverted his standard and menaced the general with its butt-end. Only the timely intervention of one of Caesar’s Germanic bodyguards — who sliced off the man’s arm — prevented him from coming to serious injury. The same could not be said of Caesar’s army, which lost a thousand legionaries and more than thirty centurions. Strangely, Pompey had soon called off his pursuit, allowing his opponent’s battered legions to escape the field. ‘The fools could have won the war that day, if they but possessed a general who knew how to win,’ Caesar had sneered. Brutus knew it was true.

  A month passed. Again the two sides faced each other, but on an open plain this time. Caesar’s army had been depleted by injuries and the garrisoning of towns to nine legions, while Pompey still had eleven.

  Superstitiously, Brutus prayed that Dyrrachium would not be repeated here today, at Pharsalus. That he would survive, and be reunited later with Fabiola. With seven cohorts as protection, she, Docilosa and Sextus were safe in Caesar’s camp, nearly three miles to the rear. If the battle was lost, the senior centurion in charge had orders to retreat to the south. It was best not to think of that eventuality, he reflected, hastily burying the thought. Then Brutus grinned, remembering Fabiola’s demand to march out on to the plain and watch the struggle. She was a lioness, he thought proudly. Fabiola had accompanied him everywhere since Alesia and now felt like his good-luck talisman. Discovering that she was also a devotee of Mithras had reinforced this feeling. They had prayed together for victory at dawn, before his departure. In that department, Brutus reflected, everything was going well. Almost everything. He sighed, thinking of Fabiola’s unexplained reticence towards Caesar. Still, it was rarely a problem. Plenty of other officers had used the excuse of the prolonged campaign to bring their mistresses along, diluting Fabiola into the mix.

  ‘Sir!’ shouted one of Brutus’ centurions. ‘It’s begun. Listen.’

  Brutus sat up in the saddle, cupping his right hand to his ear. The sound started as a low thunder, but quickly intensified until the ground shook. Without doubt, it was the noise of hooves. Pompey’s cavalry was attacking, and in response Caesar’s German and Gaulish horsemen trotted forward, to the north-west. There were a thousand of the experienced warriors, with a similar number of specially trained light infantry interspersed between. Yet their task was hopeless. Against more than three times their number all they could do was slow the speed of the enemy attack: a delaying tactic. Brutus’ pulse increased, and he looked around, checking that his men were ready. They were, he saw proudly. Two thousand of Caesar’s finest troops, who would follow him wherever he led.

  The clarion sound of bucinae ripped through the air all along the host. Vexilla, red flags, were also raised and lowered, repeating Caesar’s orders to ensure accuracy. Instantly the rhythmic tread of caligae upon the hard ground added to the noise. Two of the three lines in front of Brutus were advancing. Only one, the third, remained to hold their position. He grinned. Undeterred by the cavalry charge, Caesar was taking the battle to Pompey.

  Brutus and his men waited, watching and listening to the battle commence. Impatient, nervous, none of them enjoyed holding back while their comrades began fighting and
dying. Yet this was different. They had to stay put because their mission was all important.

  The first to meet were the two forces of cavalry. Brutus could see the clash in the distance. Sunlight glittered off polished helmets and spear tips, clouds of dust rose and battle cries rang out. Brutus knew what it was like; he had done it before. Within moments of hitting the enemy, all semblance of formation would be lost. The struggle would immediately become a mass of confusing, individual fights, rider against rider, foot soldiers against horsemen. Hack, slash, bend in the saddle. Reassure the horse, wipe sweat from your eyes. Look around, check where one’s comrades are. Dodge a spear thrust. Move forward.

  He turned to look west, wondering why the infantry had not yet met. Roman soldiers advanced towards each other in total silence, but there would still be an enormous crash of weapons against shields when it happened.

  A legionary messenger came from Caesar’s position, to the rear of the third line. ‘Pompey hasn’t allowed his men to advance, sir,’ he panted. ‘They’re just standing there, waiting.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Brutus demanded. No general ever held his troops back like that.

  Grinning, the messenger repeated himself. ‘When our lot realised, they stopped and re-formed.’

  Brutus swelled with pride. With his first and second lines already committed, Caesar would not have been able to give such a command. With astonishing initiative, his soldiers had shown their top quality by regrouping before the combat began.

  A whistling sound filled the air.

  Pila, thought Brutus. A volley from each side at twenty or thirty paces and they’ll hit.

  Screams and cries began ringing out as the javelins landed. A few moments passed. And then, with a noise like thunder, fifty thousand men smashed into each other.