FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘We can, Caesar.’

  ‘Good. See to it.’

  * * *

  21st of Quintilis

  Galronus waved his men forward with just a touch of nervousness. Caesar had, after all, told him to ‘range far and wide’, but Galronus felt he was very much at the limit of what the general had intended. By his estimate he was now between twenty five and thirty miles south-west of Ilerda, into the hills and away from the good grain lands.

  He had split his force once they had begun to harry the Pompeian foragers, two alae in each group. One had ranged the lands north of Ilerda, toward the Caesarian supply lines. Another had the remit to continually circuit and patrol the fields south of Ilerda, making grain harvesting impossible for Petreius and Afranius’ men. Galronus, with the third, had followed a lead that was intriguing, if dangerous.

  At the southern edge of the grain lands, they had found a small supply depot of Pompeian soldiers. The infantry had swiftly surrendered at the sight of six hundred veteran cavalry bearing down on their tiny compound, and had offered the information that they were part of a chain of such posts between Ilerda and some town by the name of Octogesa. They had refused to reveal anything further and Galronus had accepted that, certain that Caesar would disapprove of torturing legionaries for information every bit as much as he himself did.

  But the knowledge that there was some sort of supply line leading off to another town was too interesting to pass up the chance of inspection. Leaving the other two forces to ravage the Pompeian foragers, Galronus had taken his men and forged on in the direction of this other town.

  It had taken a few attempts, by trial and error, to trace the route of these outposts. Once at the edge of the flat lands, the hills rose like a series of upturned bowls creating wide flat valleys with seasonal streams. It was something of a natural labyrinth, with identical looking hamlets of weathered natives in many, none of whom spoke much in the way of Latin and most of whom had never been further afield than the next valley. Still, with some searching they had managed to pin down the trail of the Pompeian supplies and had located another small depot who had fled into woodlands at the sight of the approaching cavalry, melting into the landscape in places the cavalry could not go – groves of crabby olive trees and copses of tight-knit vegetation.

  Galronus and his men had moved on, and the lower, bowl-like hills had gradually given way to larger slopes that rose like backbones, creating deep, green valleys. They had tried two such dales before they had found signs of Roman life. A Roman trader with a cart. His wheel had broken and he was far from reticent when faced with Caesar’s cavalry. The rest of his caravan – four carts – had gone on with an escort to a village he knew four miles further on where a wheelwright lived. They would be returning with him soon. In the meantime, the trader waited. His vehicle was empty, but he knew from bitter experience that even a broken cart or a lame horse was a valuable commodity among the locals, and if he left the cart and walked on, it would be in some farmer’s shed within the hour.

  When his role in this Pompeian system was queried, he’d had little to tell. He was a wine merchant from Octogesa and had been delivering his wares to the garrison at Ilerda. Now he was taking his empty carts back. Where was Octogesa? Perhaps another eight or nine miles through the hills. It was a thriving little port town where the Sicoris met the Iberus. Had he any useful information? Well, when he’d left there were more ships in Octogesa than usual, but not military ships. Other than that, he told them the location of the next depot and then went back to waiting placidly for his wheelwright.

  Galronus had ridden on with his men into the higher hills, following what appeared to be the route for Octogesa. Finally, they had come to a small village with a strangely ill-fitting Roman mansio built at the foot of a high spur. The road they had been following split here, and with the afternoon already greatly advanced, the Remi officer had encamped his men for the night and had taken a small unit to the mansio.

  A little conversation, some exchange of silver, and further information had been forthcoming. The route to Octogesa was one easy day’s travel to the north side of the spur. The other route led down to the Iberus via another valley with a narrow, swift river. Why was the road so well used? Because it led to a tiny settlement on the Iberus with a dock. Logging was a source of income for the hill folk there and the timber was taken down the valley to that dock and shipped downriver to Dertosa for sale up and down the coastal region. Galronus had almost consigned the logging valley to the heading ‘unimportant’, but had caught sight of something in the innkeeper’s expression. A small fortune in silver changed hands once more, and it was revealed that a large number of soldiers had passed through only a few days ago and had taken that smaller, lesser valley.

  Thanking the man, Galronus had returned to his camp and had conferred with his officers. The decision was simple. The northern path was a simple trade route from Octogesa to Ilerda and, from the geography he had gleaned thus far, small ferries or boats would transfer traders from one bank to the other, though that was across the Sicoris to the town itself. There was nothing surprising in that. But soldiers taking a logging trail toward a small hamlet with a dock on the great Iberus – Hispania’s biggest river? Well, that was worth investigating.

  And so, as the sun climbed clear of the Earth’s ribs, the cavalry had ridden on into the narrower valley. And as they had ridden, several things had become apparent to Galronus. Firstly, he could see the small logging communities up on the slopes, as well as the bare patches that stood testament to their work. For ease of transport, the loggers had set up mileposts along the road. The first Galronus saw labelled the destination rather grandly Portus Iberus and suggested it was five miles distant. The valley, of course, wound back and forth, so likely it was less than three miles as birds flew. And the sense of tense expectation built with every hoof beat along that valley. The loggers were watching them from the slopes in taut silence. Galronus felt certain they were riding toward something important or dangerous, or both. He began to slow the pace of his men and to keep to the blind side of the valley as they approached each bend. Then, at the three mile marker, he called a halt.

  Another conference. Whatever this was, it had not been advertised. The chances were they had stumbled across some Pompeian secret and if they wanted to maintain the advantage, they would have to keep themselves unnoticed until they knew what they were dealing with.

  That was why, just now, when the alae had rounded the bend in the valley and spotted the enemy, he had made the snap decision to ride them down. None could escape.

  They were legionaries and auxiliaries, though he couldn’t see their flags to try and identify a unit. There were less than a hundred of them – Galronus suspected half a century of each, which meant the other half century of each were likely stationed somewhere else nearby. They had built a small stockade by one of the river’s tributary streams, but with no officer present and no anticipated danger, they were generally sprawled about on the grass in just tunics and boots, some with swords close to hand but very few armoured and prepared. They were gathered around two men who were clearly engaged in a boxing competition – one Hispanic auxiliary and one legionary, likely for the honour of their units. Everyone was drinking and laughing.

  It was appalling, and Galronus felt slightly nauseated at the attack. Rome might often take the most pragmatic path in any war, but the Remi were a tribe of noble warriors, who traditionally challenged their enemy to single, fair combat. To ride down such a crowd was far from heroic, but it did seem prudent.

  Six hundred horsemen pounded toward the gathering, swords and spears ready, mouths closed, silent barring the jingle and shush of weapons and armour and the thunder of hooves. The small Roman garrison panicked and exploded into activity. Some ran for the stockade, probably not for its defensive capability as much as because it was where their weapons would be. Others charged for the narrow river or the slopes, where the treeline was perhaps two hundred paces from th
e valley bottom. Very few ran toward the horses.

  Galronus, at the fore of his men as always, rode down the first man, bones smashing and shattering beneath the heavy beast, and thrust out his spear, taking another legionary in the throat. The sudden jerk of the blow forced him to let go of the spear, still jammed in the dying Roman, and draw his sword. He chose a man even as his riders flowed across the valley like a tide of gleaming, thundering death.

  Ahead, a soldier had managed to find a shield and spear. He was one of the auxiliaries – a Hispanic with swarthy skin and dark hair and beard, his mail shirt studded with decorative bronze whorls and his shield bearing some design of a stylised horse. The man gritted his teeth and braced behind his shield, holding out his spear.

  No horse will willingly charge a formation of such men. A hedge of points and steel. One man on his own? He could still do plenty of damage with that point, so at the last moment, as the man inevitably closed his eyes, braced for the collision, Galronus veered off to his left. The collision never happened, as the Remi officer thundered past the brave auxiliary’s shoulder. Galronus’ sword, however, was sweeping out. At the last moment, somehow unwilling to dispatch this brave soldier, he twisted his blade. The flat of the sword clanged into the soldier’s forehead, throwing him backwards. He would be out for hours and awake with a stunning headache and possibly other side-effects, but there was every chance he would live, at least. These men were only the enemy through a name on a pay chit, after all. In any other circumstance, they might be fighting side by side.

  Another poor bastard in a Roman russet tunic fell flailing beneath Galronus’ hooves as he struggled to draw a sword. Then there were no more. The Remi noble had ridden down one man, speared another, and brained a third, and in that short space of time, his six hundred brutal cavalrymen had mown through the other soldiers like a scythe through long grass. By the time he had called the men back, there were just three enemy survivors, huddled within the illusory protection of the stockade. Half a dozen riders dismounted, swords held ready and expressions grim as they closed on the small defence. Galronus halted them in their tracks.

  Dismounting and stepping with distaste across the battlefield, trying not to tread in any of the filth, the gore or the opened bowels, he approached the men.

  ‘Bind them tight and gag them, as well as any other survivors you can find. There will be others who will come across them in due course so they won’t starve. Wolves or bears might find them first, of course, but that would just be nature at work.’

  The three terrified soldiers didn’t know whether to look panicked or relieved at this reprieve from certain death by the sword to take their chances with the local wildlife instead. Still, a chance was a chance, so they did not struggle as the horsemen bound and gagged them.

  ‘We should just get rid of them, sir,’ said one of the decurions.

  ‘We’re not in the business of killing men unless we have to. Bear in mind that these are your countrymen.’

  ‘Not mine, sir. I’m from Narbo, of Volcae blood, way back.’

  Galronus laughed. ‘I knew there was a reason I liked you. Who’d credit it, eh? A Remi telling a Volcae to be kind to his Roman brothers. Strange world we live in, Decurion. But the fact remains that this little war of Caesar’s will be over within the year, as soon as he stamps on Pompey, and then these men will be our brothers again. Let’s avoid unnecessary bloodshed as often as possible.’

  The man nodded and saluted. ‘What now, sir?’

  Galronus pondered for a moment. ‘To move on down the valley seems foolhardy. If they have pickets and outposts about then there will be more like this and I don’t want to have to reap our way down the valley just to see what all this is about. Clean up here as best you can, and then pull most of the cavalry back to the fourth mile marker. If you see a roving patrol you’ll have to take care of them, and if you come across anything that might cause trouble, you’ll have to pull all the way back to that mansio. Wait for us there if necessary. I’m taking a turma up into the hills to see if we can get a good view of what lies ahead.’

  The decurion clearly disapproved, but saluted anyway and began to call the men back to himself. Galronus gathered his personal bodyguard turma. ‘We’re going to find a way up into the hills. Two scouts will lead the way. This is not a fight. We are going to climb high enough to see what is going on without having to slaughter our way down the valley to do it.’

  Half an hour later, the scene of the horrible massacre was almost lost to sight for Galronus and his small unit of thirty three men. They had climbed one of the clearer logging trails, the two scouts ranging ahead to find the best tracks. Continually they had climbed, past a small logging hut where the native woodsman pulled his family away from the approaching horsemen and hid in the building, watching suspiciously as the men passed. Here and there, as the trail bent and curved back on itself in its ascent, they could see down into the valley.

  The decurion had done a good job of clearing up, given the time and resources. From this high point, they could see that the bodies had been gathered and thrown into a natural depression in the ground. They would be covered with turf deep enough to stop scavengers getting wind of them. The bodies couldn’t be properly burned for fear of attracting further attention, but at least burial would afford them some dignity. Little could be done about the mess on the turf, but that would clear eventually. Idly, Galronus wondered whether his men had reverently placed a coin in the mouth of each of the dead. Some of his men – particularly the regular cavalry – clung tightly to the belief that the ferryman would turn aside those who couldn’t pay and they would wander forever as unsettled spirits. Most of his Gallic and Belgic cavalry were content to sing a prayer-song to Dis on behalf of the dead and then drink themselves insensible.

  Whatever the case, Galronus forced himself to ponder no further on the Roman cost.

  The trails were not wide, but finally, after another hour of riding, they emerged from the edge of the trees, and Galronus was halted in his tracks by the sight of one of the scouts. The man had dismounted and was standing behind a thicket of gorse and juniper. He had his hand up to stop them and was gesturing down the slope. Galronus murmured the order for the entire turma to halt in the trees, uncomfortable though it was, and slid from the saddle, dashing across the open ground to the scout.

  He came to a halt behind a sprawling juniper and his gaze slid down the hill. His heart thumped loud and fast and his skin prickled at the sight.

  From this impressive vantage point, he could see the small river they’d been following open out into the great Iberus river below. And he could see the small village with its logging dock. He could also see a small fortlet that the Pompeians had built on the shore. But more impressive was the work under construction. The Iberus here was a quarter of a mile across and yet, looking up and down the flow, it was still clearly the narrowest part within sight. The legionaries were at work moving ships into position and lashing them together to form a great pontoon bridge across the massive river. Galronus could just see what must be Octogesa upstream, on the ‘V’ shape where the Sicoris joined this impressive torrent. Ships were still being guided down from the place, toward the growing bridge.

  Galronus understood in an instant.

  Petreius and Afranius meant to run. The burning of their supplies and Caesar’s sudden control of the best foraging lands had made their position under siege suddenly truly untenable. And the fact that local tribes, towns and units were starting to come over to Caesar was making it ever worse. But the further south and west they went, the more staunchly pro-Pompey the populace would become, and eventually they might meet up with the governor of Hispania Ulterior and his legions. If the two Pompeian generals managed to get their army across that pontoon bridge and then cast it adrift, it would take Caesar weeks to come anywhere near them again. At best it would be like starting Ilerda from scratch. At worst they would find themselves in thoroughly unfriendly territory and against growing o
dds. They had to stop the garrison of Ilerda from crossing the Iberus, or this fight alone would go on all year.

  Breathing deeply, Galronus gestured at the scout and then trotted across to his horse. Mounting, he motioned to the decurions.

  ‘We ride back at speed. Gather all the cavalry and return to Caesar. Petreius and Afranius intend to leave Ilerda and take their army across the great river. We have to warn Caesar. They need to be stopped immediately.’

  * * *

  The cavalry closed on Ilerda at speed, but even as the twin mounds of Pompeian resistance came into clear perspective, Galronus could see how things had changed in his week long absence.

  The last time he had seen the stone bridge across the Sicoris from this side had been early in the siege. The terrain kept this area out of sight from the main Caesarian camp on the far side of the enemy forces. As such, unless the general’s scouts were coming dangerously close to the enemy position, it was very possible that Caesar was as unaware of this new development as he was of the pontoon bridge being strung across the Iberus.

  Two Pompeian legions, he would estimate, were on the south bank now, constructing a whole new smaller fort beside the other end of the bridge. Having seen the pontoon, this made perfect sense to Galronus. It might not have done to a less informed observer.

  If Petreius and Afranius meant to abandon Ilerda, they would have to do it across the stone bridge. Defending the far end and already moving out two legions ready was eminently sensible, especially now that Caesar’s cavalry were at large on the far side. But it also meant that the time for their moving was nigh. The Pompeians were preparing to leave.

  In his head, from his now vast experience of the Roman army on the move, he calculated the size of Caesar’s army and the speed it would travel. It was not a happy result. Galronus could see no way that Caesar could move his legions across the Sicoris in time to stop the enemy leaving. He would have to use the bridges, which were further away and narrower, restricting the flow of men and slowing crossing immeasurably. It was troubling.