FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Send me the regular cavalry musicians,’ he shouted to the nearest Roman officer.

  * * *

  Publius Cassius Bucco was not happy. A year ago he had secured his tribunate in the military with the patronage of his father’s friends and had looked forward to his term of service, a first step on a road which could even lead to consulship in the future. He’d had dreams of gleaming armour and red plumes, of sipping good Falernian while his legion romped through the ranks of some barbarian horde and earned him a reputation.

  His dreams had been shattered repeatedly since then. Assigned to a legion who supported Pompey, he had been hopeful. The fat old oligarch was supposed to be the saviour of Rome, so the opportunity for glory had seemed likely. Then he had been sent to Hispania to serve under an angry man, while Pompey had hoisted up his toga and run like a chastised child to Greece, leaving Rome in the lurch.

  Since arriving with the Second Vernacular as one of the five junior tribunes he had suffered constant disappointments. The legion were not gleaming Romans. Half of them spoke Latin with a notably Hispanic accent, having been locally recruited. Petreius, their overall commander was a man with a tongue like a scourge and a temper fit to burst through walls. And then they had joined with Afranius and the legions had gathered. The two commanders seemed to hate each other and disagreed on everything, the only thing holding them together being their allegiance to Pompey

  Then they had moved to this gods-forsaken dung hole and shut themselves up in a camp next to Ilerda, where they had waited until first General Fabius arrived with his legions, then Caesar himself. And while they had managed to stay in command of Ilerda, the two generals had constantly promised their men that the siege would flounder and fail and that Caesar would run out of food and have to leave. Yet the cursed proconsul clung to Ilerda like a bad smell, and his legions were going nowhere.

  In the private of his room, Cassius had pondered more than once whether perhaps his father had hitched his family’s cart to the wrong horse with Pompey.

  Then, in the midst of that horrible twelve day storm, scouts had brought word that Caesar’s supply column was approaching, and three legions had been dispatched secretly in the mire and the downpour to capture or destroy them.

  And now here they were.

  Cassius’ legate, the ex-consul Gnaeus Cornelius Lentulus Clodianus, was the senior man in the field, a close friend of Pompey’s and at sixty five years one of the most experienced and longest-serving commanders in the army, and as such had been given command of the entire force. And while Cassius had to admit to being no great tactician, he felt certain Lentulus Clodianus had got it wrong. Privately he grumbled the old stories that Lentulus had been resoundingly beaten by Spartacus during the servile wars. He seemed to be displaying similarly poor military qualities here.

  The native horsemen were dying in droves with little noticeable effect on the Gauls on the hill. And while they were all barbarians up there, some of them were flying vexillum flags bearing Caesar’s infamous bull emblem, so there was no doubting these were fighting for Rome’s populist hero. They did not look like a force that were worried or about to be broken.

  And now, steaming under the hot sun, Cassius was learning what the main duties of a junior tribune were – apparently mostly holding the legate’s cloak or his helmet, fetching things for him, running errands or playing messenger. It was demeaning work for a man supposedly in high office.

  And he should be on a horse. A tribune was a senior officer. It looked bad for a senior officer to be on foot. Yet here he was struggling up the slope toward the legate and his staff, carrying a dispatch from the primus pilus who seemed to treat him like a clerk.

  The Praetorian guards stepped to the side to allow him through, and Cassius approached Legate Lentulus, who was sipping wine and engaged in light hearted banter with the commander of one of the other legions. Damn him.

  ‘Legatus, a dispatch from the primus pilus.’

  He handed over the wax tablet and the legate opened it, ran his gaze down the scratched marks, nodded, scribbled a quick response and then slapped it back into Cassius’ hands. That was it! Dismissed without a word. Assuming the fresh scratching was a reply, Cassius turned and pushed his way down the hill between the guards once more until he had his back to everyone and could glower the way he felt he needed to.

  Grumbling things about clerks and slaves and messengers and doddering consular revenants who had no manners, he began to make his way across the open ground toward the legions, who still waited in their ordered ranks.

  He had covered a third of the distance, not hurrying lest he be given an even more onerous task, when the gods unleashed the river of death upon the plains of Ilerda.

  A scream announced the attack. Cassius turned in shock and his eyes bulged. The Praetorians guarding the officers were being cut down mercilessly by a large force of cavalry bearing more of Caesar’s bull banners. Even as he watched in horror, Cassius saw the legate of the Eighth Cantabrian disappear in a welter of blood, some Caesarian horseman whooping a victory call.

  In moments the hilltop was no longer the Pompeian command tribunal, but a charnel house commanded by howling horsemen.

  Cassius blinked in shock. What should he do?

  His eyes slipped back to the three legions and their native horse besieging the hill. They had not even noticed yet. The noise of their own fight had effectively drowned out what was happening behind. Even as he panicked, the legions finally realised what was going on, and desperate calls began to blare out.

  A centurion emerged from the rear of the Second, running toward him and waving at the hill.

  ‘What’s happening, Tribune?’

  Someone was asking him? Deferring to him?’

  ‘Errr….’

  ‘Tribune, who are they?’

  ‘Caesar’s men. Cavalry. Lots of them.’

  ‘Not just cavalry,’ the centurion replied bluntly, without using rank, title or honorific.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen,’ the centurion said. ‘Can you hear those calls? They’re legion calls. This is just the vanguard. Caesar’s legions are coming.’

  Cassius’ blood ran cold. Really? Here? It seemed impossible, but then the sounds he could hear did sound a lot like the calls he’d heard from the legions at Ilerda.

  ‘Errr…’

  ‘What do we do, Tribune?’

  Cassius blinked. Why was the man asking him? Legates made the decisions. Or in their absence the senior tribune. Or, he supposed, when they were both gone…’

  He realised with another chill that there was every likelihood that three legates, seventeen tribunes and a number of prefects had been cut to pieces on that hill by Caesar’s men. Was it possible that he was now the most senior man of Pompey’s on the battlefield.

  ‘Sir?’ insisted the centurion.

  He felt sure that he could turn the situation to his advantage and wipe out the men on the hill if he could just think, but there was no time. And if Caesar’s legions were closing, ready to trap them…’

  ‘Sound the recall,’ he told the centurion. ‘Pass it to all three legions and the cavalry. We move at a double march. We break directly south and move until we know we are clear and then turn and retreat to Ilerda.’

  The centurion saluted and ran off to his musician. Cassius swallowed nervously, looking at his army, then at the Gauls on the hill and the cavalry flooding the rise where the officers had been. It could very well mean the end of his military career. A still-born career, in fact. But at least this way the legions would survive and the two squabbling commanders could use them again. He could attempt to lead some heroic action here, but what would happen then if his three legions were crushed and butchered by Caesar’s men? No. Better that they live.

  The Pompeian calls went up and the army broke off its attack in moments, turning in order but at speed and leaving the field.

  * * *

  Galronus grinned as he watched the legions depart.


  ‘That might be the most chancy, audacious move I have ever seen, sir,’ the regular cavalry decurion laughed.

  ‘I’ve certainly never seen infantry outpace cavalry before,’ Galronus grinned. ‘Magnificent attempt at saving their own skin, I’d say.’

  The decurion chuckled and saluted, then returned to his unit. Galronus heaved a sigh of relief. The calls the cavalry musicians had made, hidden behind the ridges, had sounded a lot like legionary commands. Of course, none of them knew the true melodies for such, but they’d heard them often enough to be able to roughly mimic them, and it seemed the Pompeians had bought the ruse and fled, fearing they were facing Caesar’s legions, and not just an ala of three hundred horsemen.

  The force on the hill was beginning to descend and sheath weapons, setting their carts moving, and a small group of noblemen were ahead, riding to meet their saviours.

  ‘Greetings,’ said one of the horseman in thickly-accented Latin. ‘I am Cisiambo, Prince among the Aedui and ally of the Roman war leader Caesar. We bear the same standards. I believe you are his men?’

  Galronus smiled at the arm-ringed, braided Gaul regarding him with an odd expression. Something that was a mix of Celtic distain and allied camaraderie. It was a weird combination.

  ‘Greetings,’ Galronus replied in turn. ‘I am Galronus, prince and war leader of the Remi, staff officer of Caesar and senator of Rome.’

  An odd thrill ran through him. It was the first time he’d ever said those words. It had always felt to him as though it would be an empty honour to be a senator. A title without strength. But being able to say it to someone felt oddly impressive. And when he combined it with his exalted rank, Caesar’s name and his own lineage…

  The Aedui was wrong-footed, unsure whether to be impressed or not.

  ‘We have supplies and reinforcements for Caesar. We reached the river, but the bridges were gone. We turned and found ourselves pursued.’

  ‘Pompey’s dogs,’ Galronus snorted. ‘They run when true warriors face them. You did well, my friend, prince among the Aedui. We have had bad rains, and the floods have taken the bridges, but the matter is already being attended to. Follow me and I will lead you to Caesar.’

  As the newly-arriving troops moved the supplies off the hill and the two forces joined, Galronus watched, implacably, from the hill. It was odd. The Remi were a tribe of the Belgae, almost as Germanic as they were Gallic. These were Aedui, southern Gauls who had been influenced for ten generations by Rome. And yet while they should feel a certain blood tie, all Galronus felt was natural superiority. He was Remi, but he was Roman. He had ridden with his tribe to join Caesar’s army in their early days in Gaul. They had been honoured for it. The Remi had emerged from a decade of war stronger than ever, with ten times their original influence, cities where their villages had been, and Roman citizenship for their nobles. He had lost something of what he had been, but what he had gained had more than filled the gap. He was part Belgae, part Roman, and in many respects better than either. Certainly, he knew he was better than Cisiambo, which was a thought that would never have occurred to him a decade ago. Was this part of what it was to be Roman? Was this what powered their self-possession and strength? It was an impressive feeling, deep into the bones.

  In an odd moment, as he welcomed the Ruteni and the Aedui to Caesar’s army in the name of the Senate and people of Rome, Galronus had an epiphany. He was Roman now. No matter what he might call himself, he was now as Roman as Fronto. Probably more so, he snorted.

  It would take too long to bring the supplies via the upstream crossing they had found, and the wagons might not make it, but with luck Caesar would already be working on a new bridge. Galronus would lead the supplies to the lower bridge site and hope that things were underway.

  * * *

  Fronto stood behind the sudis stake defences and watched the enemy come. Behind him, Felix and the Eleventh Legion braced themselves.

  Already, even early enough in the morning that the sun was still just a ribbon of gold above the peaks, work on the new bridge proceeded apace. Mamurra had set three entire legions to work on it, one procuring the necessary materials, one turning those materials into usable components and the third assembling them into a good, strong bridge, as strong as a timber crossing could be and far better than the now-gone ones the storm had demolished. Work had begun yesterday at dawn, and had proceeded slowly and with great difficulty, for Petreius and Afranius had sent auxiliary troops to the far bank, where they had lurked behind wicker screens and launched arrows, spears and sling bullets at the working legions.

  Caesar’s irritation at the slow pace, which Mamurra had admitted would stretch out the production time to more than a week, had driven him to finding a new solution. The legions had been turned to a new project for two hours, manufacturing light wattle-and-hide-sided boats of the sort they had seen in Britannia a few years earlier. Then, during the night, the Eleventh had been ferried across the Sicoris in those boats a few miles upstream and out of sight while the enemy retreated to the safety of Ilerda for the hours of darkness.

  Fronto could imagine the surprise among those Pompeian troops this morning, as they laughed and joked and sauntered off to the river to cause trouble for the working legionaries again, only to find a full legion encamped on this side of the flow waiting for them.

  The Pompeians were not legionaries. Mainly they were Balearics, Carpetani and Oretani – slingers, archers and sword-bearing infantry in tribal groups.

  ‘Shields up,’ bellowed Felix beside him, watching the approaching auxiliaries. ‘Ready those pila.’

  He cast a meaningful look at Fronto, who nodded and stepped back. He was not wearing a red plume now, but he would still easily be identifiable as a senior officer by the rest of his attire, and he had learned a harsh lesson about that now. He stepped back and watched as the Eleventh confidently lined the makeshift fence of pointed timber and pulled their right arms back, the points of the pila lined up with their ear along their arm, ready to throw. Some men had the shaft gripped less than half way along. Others favoured a heavier variant and clutched it closer to the head for balance. Still others used the old Greek method, a throwing cord wrapped around both weapon and fingers to give extra lift during the throw. Each to their own in Felix’s legion. Whatever worked best for the man.

  The Hispanics approached the defences, their confidence melting away as they realised what they were up against. Some native leader shouted a command and the front lines of spear men stopped and threw their javelins. It was a shambles. They had stopped far too early, worried about the coming barrage of pila, and so their missiles almost entirely clattered and slammed into the ground many paces short of the Roman line.

  There was no homogeneity of command among these auxilia, led by their own tribal nobles, and not by a Roman prefect, and each unit fought independently, as though the others were not there. The swordsmen pushed between the spears and, spotting the pila ready to throw, ground to a halt, their rather inadequate small shields coming up defensively. Fronto could see the men of the Eleventh straining, desperate to throw.

  ‘Hold them steady,’ ordered Felix. They would not waste the missiles on these infantry.

  Sure enough, the slingers and archers were now approaching, some filtering out to the right to make for the river bank nearby where they could take opportunistic shots, others heading for the makeshift fortification and Fronto’s men. The legate found himself muttering under his breath, urging the primus pilus to give the order, but Felix knew his business. Finally, as the sling stones began to whip out and thud into shields and greaves and ding off helmets, he cleared his throat.

  ‘Iacta!’

  Four hundred pila arced up and over the intervening ground, past the enemy javelins lying harmless in the dust. Felix had been precise with his timing. The archers were pulling back the strings of their bows and raising them, sighting ready to release, as the pila struck home. Archers and slingers fell all across the enemy fo
rce, pinned to the ground or to each other, shafts through torsos, limbs and heads. Mis-shot arrows launched up into the air at odd angles, or down, or even into their friends nearby. All was chaos. The attack floundered instantly.

  ‘Pila to the front,’ Felix shouted. Fronto nodded his approval as across the line another four hundred of the deadly missiles were fed forward to the men at the defences. Even now he could see out of the corner of his eye another batch being moved up ready, and more were being transported across the river for their use.

  The enemy saw the pila being handed to the men and readied, and Fronto could sense their tension, their readiness to break. A single shout of alarm started it. Somewhere among the archers, someone cried out and in moments the Hispanic auxiliaries exploded outwards like a drop of rain on a marble slab. Many fled back toward Ilerda, mostly archers and slingers, unwilling to face a second such barrage. They had no heavy infantry support, no legionaries, and were largely defenceless. It was one thing to stand beside a river and play huntsman, picking off Roman engineers. It was another to face a legion able to fight back.

  One of the enemy leaders had different ideas. While the missile troops scattered, the swordsmen of Carpetani origin rushed forward, seemingly intent on removing the threat at the sudis barriers rather than evading it.

  The men of the Eleventh faced this meagre threat with confidence as they steadied their missiles.

  ‘Now,’ Felix shouted, and another four hundred pila arced up, the angle considerably lower this time, aimed at the advancing swordsmen. They were brave, Fronto had to give them that. Despite the slew of deaths they came on, launching themselves at the defenders who, at Felix’s next command, had drawn their swords and were ready.

  Fronto watched, never even for a moment considering the possibility that his men might lose. The Eleventh held their makeshift barrier with ease as the Carpetani swordsmen pushed and hacked, trying to negotiate the dreadful points of the sharpened stakes, only to find themselves prey to the Roman blades. They fell like wheat to the sickle, and by the time a dozen heartbeats had passed, the attack broke and the infantry were rushing back along the river bank toward Ilerda. As the legionaries relaxed and watched their enemy run, Felix gave the orders to sound off. It transpired, as Fronto listened, that they had lost twenty-some men in the press, while the ground beyond the defences was littered with Pompeian dead and their thrown or discarded weapons.