* * *
Fronto stood on the veranda of his villa with Galronus, sipping from his wine cup and enjoying the play of sun on his face. Caesar’s attendants had done a good job of making the villa habitable, firing up the furnaces and heating the floors and the private bath suite, gathering in foodstuffs and collecting linen and other goods from local sources.
He had been rather surprised when they arrived to find the villa empty. And not just empty of people and valuable possessions, either. Truly empty, as though he had moved out. The bare furnishings were still there, and the drapes too, but no linen, no foodstuff, no supplies, no crockery. What had Catháin done?
Still, it was now liveable, and with the sun still two or three hours from setting, they had been outside Massilia for more than a day. The camps were progressing surprisingly well, considering the lack of experience of both the riders doing the digging and the officers planning the sites. Every few hours the important folk of Massilia would gather on the walls and watch the activity. No one could say what was going through their minds, but Fronto could hazard a guess. Nervousness. Panic, even?
The general emerged, stretching, from the front door.
‘Shall we go and rattle someone’s confidence?’
Ingenuus and his riders fell in with the officers as they left the villa, a dozen men of Tribunician rank or above, and walked their horses slowly toward the walls of Massilia – slowly enough to allow word to be carried in the city and the councillors to make it back to the walls. Sure enough, as they neared the gate, white-clad figures appeared atop the parapet between the heavy, square towers. Fronto glanced to either side, his gaze taking in the twin bolt throwers of classic Greek design on the towers. Neither had swivelled toward them yet. The moment they even twitched, he wanted to be ready to get out of there.
‘Am I speaking to representatives of the city boule?’ Caesar called in clear, flat tones as he reined in before the gate.
A voice called out in a thick Massiliot accent in reply. ‘I am Pherecydes of the council of Massilia. Say what you have to say, Proconsul, and begone from our walls.’
Caesar leaned back and folded his arms.
‘I do not expect your welcome, despite the longstanding alliance we have held throughout my dealings in Gaul. Despite the impressive mercantile growth you have experienced through my patronage. Despite the money I have put into your city. Despite the favoured position I secured it with the republic of Rome. I do not even expect your surrender or capitulation to me. Because despite everything I am one man, and what you should do is welcome Rome. Surrender to Rome. Just like all of Italia has done before you. Because I am no rebel. I am a servant of Rome, intent on restoring her in the face of the animals that have wrested control from her rightful senate.’
He allowed a pause, half expecting the Massiliots to fill it, but there was only silence.
‘If I am required to, I will invest Massilia with siege works and force a settlement, for I cannot suffer such strong opposition sitting directly at the heart of my supply lines. But I would far rather we come to agreed terms now and settle the matter peacefully.’
‘Your horses can climb walls now, Caesar?’
Fronto saw the dangerous flash in the general’s eyes as he fought to control his temper at that.
‘There are a number of veteran legions only a week or so behind me and, once they arrive, Massilia will be looking at hardship, pain and protracted deprivation. Do not toy with me, Pherecydes of Massilia. This is no game.’
‘Oh but it is, Proconsul of Gaul. It is a game, and a race and a wrestling match, and on much closer terms than you realise. And it does sadden us to turn our backs upon a man who has favoured our city. But equally your consuls and Pompey himself have done so in their turn. Pompey granted extra lands to our territory and endowed us with funds for expansion to increase our trade with his provincial ports in Hispania. So you see we are left with a choice of who to disappoint. And while your legions are a week away, we have it on good authority that Domitius Ahenobarbus, carrying the authority of the consuls and senate of Rome, is much closer with a fleet of men to support Massilia. So you see, along with our Albici allies who already drew into the city at news of your approach, we are thoroughly prepared to hold out against you, should you make the unfortunate decision to besiege us.’
Fronto could see the vein throbbing at Caesar’s temple, indicating either that a decision was about to be made that everyone would regret or that – more likely – Caesar was about to suffer one of his falls. He turned to Trebonius. ‘Get everyone back to the villa.’
‘But, Fronto…’
‘Now!’ As Trebonius turned and gestured for the others to follow on, Fronto yanked on Caesar’s reins, turning his horse. Galronus came along the other side of the general and Salvius Cursor and Aulus Ingenuus were suddenly there too.
‘Get back to the villa,’ Fronto snapped at the tribune, trying to urge Caesar’s horse forward as the general rocked gently, held in place by his horned saddle, his eyes half-closed and his body trembling.
‘Fronto, what is this?’ Salvius asked quietly.
Fronto gave a meaningful look at Ingenuus, who nodded and turned. ‘Go, Tribune.’
Salvius gave Fronto a glare as though he’d taken personal offence, and then rode off in the wake of the others. Caesar was starting to shake now.
‘Quickly.’
Grabbing the general’s reins and hoping the saddle would hold him adequately in place, Fronto, Galronus and Ingenuus escorted Caesar back up the slope of the defile, across the ridge and to a small barn that stood on the edge of some rich man’s estate. Ingenuus’ riders formed a cordon around the place, and Ingenuus and Fronto pulled Caesar out of his saddle, dragging him into the shed, where they dumped him unceremoniously on a pile of damp, cold straw. The general was starting to shake wildly.
‘Hold him down,’ Fronto told the other two, then looked around and, unable to find a stick, stupidly on the edge of a farm, he pulled his pugio from his belt, made sure it was the one with the leather binding on the grip, and prised the general’s jaws open, placing the knife hilt between them and holding it there.
They held him tight for some time as he bucked and shook, froth and drool flicking from his mouth as he thrashed. After a while, the shaking subsided and the fight went out of the fit. Ingenuus, his expression grave and his face pale, fixed Fronto with a steady look.
‘You knew?’
‘I’ve seen it once or twice now,’ Fronto nodded. ‘And I think it gets brought on when he becomes enraged. I saw it coming this time, in plenty of time.’
‘You certainly did. And good job. The Massiliots will be wondering what happened to him, but at least they didn’t see this. And neither did the officers.’
Galronus frowned. ‘This happens often?’
‘Not often,’ Ingenuus replied. ‘Happened once in front of a Gallic deputation, which was almost a disaster. We managed to convince them he was stung by something and had a bad reaction. The truth of this would make people nervous. They would think him cursed or unlucky, and we cannot afford that.’
A weak voice beneath them said ‘I am luckier than most. Thank you.’
A shaky hand proffered Fronto’s pugio, hilt first, where the leather was sodden and covered in teeth marks.
‘Er… thank you.’
‘Next time, Fronto, find a stick. I think I chipped a tooth.’
‘Gadfly bite, sir?’ Ingenuus murmured. ‘It’s about the right season now.’
Caesar nodded as he slowly sat up. ‘Gadfly. Good. I need to dust myself down and wipe my face and get back to the men.’
‘Take a few moments,’ Fronto said quietly. ‘Make sure you’re steady. It’s not like anything will change in the next hour.’
‘The next hour, no,’ Caesar replied. ‘But the next few days… Damn it, Fronto we’re in a race. The legions get here first and we can storm Massilia or threaten them into surrender, then all is good. We leave a garrison and
move on. But if gods-damned Ahenobarbus gets here first with his fleet then we have a full-scale siege on our hands, and I can afford neither the men nor the time to deal with that.’
‘Ahenobarbus is only days away, and the legions well over a week. Unless there’s a freak storm, I think we’ve already lost the race.’
‘And Hispania gains time to prepare,’ Caesar sighed. ‘Everything is coming unstitched at the last moment, gentlemen. We need to be certain. I need to send riders to find my legions and discover how close they are and whether there is any way to speed up their approach. And I shall have to send a message to Fabius and the legions at Narbo. If we are to be delayed here, then he must move to keep Pompey’s legions off-balance. He should move to secure the Pyrenaei and all the border crossings.’
‘Maybe you should send Salvius Cursor into Hispania for you, Fronto said. ‘The whole place will probably be a charnel house before you can get there.’
‘That one I am keeping on a tight leash until he is needed,’ Caesar sighed. ‘He will have his time and his uses, but it is not yet time.’
* * *
Three days later the riders brought news that Caesar’s legions were at Nikaea, a hundred miles to the east and would be three more days even at a forced march before they could hope to join the general. This unhappy news was compounded when that next day, at noon, a fleet of seven warships appeared on the horizon, pulling into the harbour of Massilia by mid-afternoon, their bellied sails bearing the eagle motif of the consular fleet and every foot of space bristling with armed men.
Ahenobarbus had arrived.
Salvius Cursor was unrelenting with his high ground, reminding them all how he had been adamant that Ahenobarbus should not be spared at Corfinium and how now, when they least required intervention, here was the man again with a relief force for the defiant city.
‘Well, Caesar,’ Trebonius had sighed, ‘it looks like a siege after all.’
* * *
Carbo fastened the chinstrap of his ostentatious helmet and glared at Atenos.
‘This outfit feels like I’m preparing to play some role in the theatre. Probably a comedic one.’
Atenos laughed. ‘Respectfully, Legatus Carbo, you could fall in a pile of horse shit and stand up smelling of roses.’
Carbo gave him the same glare he’d been using all the way from Narbo. The centurion shrugged. ‘I’ve been a warrior, a mercenary and a legionary and now I’m a centurion. I’ll never go higher than this, though. You? Centurion, then camp prefect and now legate? What’s next? Going for consul after Caesar.’
Carbo grunted as he settled his weighty cloak into place. Caesar’s letter assigning him command of the Tenth had come in the winter and he’d been flabbergasted, though on sober reflection – and he hadn’t been sober for a few days afterwards – it was a natural choice. He had served with the Tenth for over a decade and had been senior centurion for many of those years. Following his spell in captivity he had come back tentatively to serve as camp prefect, and while he thought he’d been mediocre in the role at best, others said he’d excelled in the position. And Caesar had taken note. So, short of senior officers and with men fleeing his side as he opposed the senate, Carbo was the natural choice.
‘I note that the Tenth got the choice assignment again. The Ninth get the tender meat, the Sixth the tasty crackling, and the Tenth the chewy gristle of life.’
‘With respect, Legatus…’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘With respect, I don’t envy the Ninth. And the Sixth won’t find their task easy either. You can argue assignments when we all meet up and drink wine at Gerunda.’
Carbo grunted again. He wouldn’t admit it, but he didn’t envy his peers and their legions either. The Ninth had been given the difficult coastal path by Fabius. Their route was coastal and pleasant past Portus Veneris, but by the time they were in sight of Cervaria the terrain would be dreadful. High hills and low mountains reaching down to the coast. Ten miles then of horrible travel before they could turn inland on the low pass and make for the flat plains around Emporiae. And in the midst of all that horrible terrain they would find the port of Cervaria, garrisoned with Pompey’s men and with fast ships. They would have to take the place fast and preferably without letting ships flee the harbour carrying news. No, he didn’t really envy the Ninth.
And the Sixth had boarded every ship that Fabius could impound at Narbo for a landing on the plains beyond the mountains. They would have the critical task of securing the ancient and strong city of Emporiae before the other legions cleared the passes. A siege of Emporiae following a sea journey didn’t sound like a lot of fun either. Once they were in position in Gerunda and Emporiae, Hispania would be open before them and Caesar’s orders would have been completed.
And yet that did little to diminish the difficulty of their own mission.
Carbo’s eyes slid up the pass to the looming monument at the summit. With a sigh, he turned. ‘Come on.’
The Tenth stood at attention in the wide, grassy area of what was, otherwise, a narrow and fairly vertiginous valley. He could see the wagons of the artillery and supply train moving slowly up the pass from Narbo in the distance, but the legion was as ready as they’d ever be. The only sounds were the occasional cough, the wind howling and whipping through the mountains and the croak and caw of birds wheeling above. It was almost eerie.
‘There’s no subtlety to this,’ he shouted to the assembled men, each centurion standing at the front of his unit. ‘But then we weren’t chosen for this because we’re subtle, were we?’
A ripple of laughter played across the ranks and Carbo waited for it to die away.
‘This is a little piece of Pompey’s black heart and it’s our job to take it in the name of Caesar, of the senate, and of Rome. Can you see the two peaks?’
He waited as each man’s neck craned to look up at the summit.
‘On the right hand, slightly lower, peak is a trophy. It was put there by Pompey himself twenty two years ago to commemorate his part in the butchery of thousands of men, both Hispanics and Romans, during the war against Sertorius. It names the eight hundred and seventy six fortresses he claims to have taken. And many of them were held by Romans. Hispania ran with Roman blood for years, much of it spilled by Pompey. Other men spilled plenty of Roman blood in that war, men like Sertorius, Perpenna and Metellus. But only Pompey would think the death of so many Romans glorious enough to raise a trophy on his day of victory.’
There was a collective grumble of malice. Good. He needed them fired up for this.
‘So here’s what we’re going to do, men of the Tenth Legion. We are going to swarm up the other peak to where Pompey has garrisoned a single understrength cohort of men, and we are going to take it and raise the standards of the Tenth over it. There are four hundred men at most there to our four thousand. And they may have fortifications and terrain and rest to their advantage, but we… are… the… TENTH!’
There was a roar, and Carbo grinned. Maybe he could be a good legate after all?
‘And then, when that fortress is ours, you know what we’re going to do?’
There was a general muttering of uncertainty, and Carbo grinned.
‘We are going to piss on Pompey’s ‘achievement’. Every man in the Tenth is going to drink a hearty wine ration to celebrate our own little victory, and then he’s going to go and relieve himself on one of the names of Pompey’s victories.’
There was another roar.
‘But… and this is important, men of the Tenth. When we take those walls, we will not be killing the defenders any more, and we’re not taking slaves.’
There was a moment of confusion.
‘Because for all they stand against us, these men are Romans, and we are not Pompey. You hear me? WE. ARE. NOT. POMPEY!’
A roar of approval.
‘What are you waiting for, lads? Take the pass!’
At his words, the cornua blew and the standards waved. The cohorts
moved off at a steady stomp. Carbo grinned. At such an exhortation to fight and with their blood up, a young legion, or one full of new lads, would even now be running up that slope, bellowing imprecations and waving swords. And when they got to the top, they’d hardly be able to breathe, let alone fight. But the Tenth were an old legion of veterans and they knew what they were doing. Just as eager and just as determined, they were moving at a mile-eating pace yet preserving their breath and strength for when they needed it.
‘Well, Atenos, best join your unit.’
The big, blond centurion flashed a knowing grin at the pink-faced legate. ‘Be a good officer, Carbo, and go stand with the tribunes looking important. You’ve done your bit. Now let me do mine.’
As the legate threw him a sour look and wandered off toward the small knot of senior officers, Atenos jogged lightly ahead to the First Cohort’s First Century, which was now passing his position on their way up the pass. A moment later he was among them, at the fore of the whole army, looking up at the heights for which they were bound.
The trophy was impressive. Of white stone and the height of twenty men, it towered over the valley and the surrounding peaks. It consisted of a heavy square base with a monumental arch forming a tunnel in the foundations, through which the Via Domitia passed on its way into Hispania. Atop that heavy square base stood a square building like a temple of giants, with false columns built into it and seemingly endless carved plaques bearing the names of Pompey’s conquests. The building was surmounted by a pyramidal roof, crowned by a larger-than-life statue of Pompey himself in a moment of supreme self-aggrandisement. However impressive it might be as a structure, even the sight of it made Atenos feel a little sick.
The fortress stood to one side on a slightly higher peak, guarding the pass. There was no ditch, for this place had been built on the bare rock of the mountains, and the natural slope at each side provided the best defence possible. Stone walls rose to enclose a small fort capable of holding only a few hundred men, with a high watchtower at its heart.
FIELDS OF MARS Page 11