FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘What now sir?’ asked a decurion, pointing at the distant works. Almost simultaneously a call went up among the Pompeian legions, warning of the cavalry’s approach.

  ‘Nothing we can do about them here and now. They form contra equitas and we’re pretty much powerless. Legions know how to face cavalry, and there are ten thousand of them against eighteen hundred of us. Let’s hope the ford’s still crossable. We need to get back to Caesar as soon as we can.’

  Eighteen hundred horse was a fearsome fighting force, now that he had recombined the three roving units, but Galronus was under no illusion as to what their chances would be when facing two full legions of veterans.

  ‘Ride for the ford and cross. Skirt the enemy widely.’

  They did so, and Galronus kept his gaze on the enemy even as they raced out of Pompey’s reach. He had to respect them. There was no fear or panic about the legionaries building this new fort. They may be deserting Ilerda, but none of them saw it as a defeat. It was a tactical change of position to achieve a new strength. The enemy were resolute.

  So was Galronus.

  The ford was a hive of activity. Far from leaving it as the rough crossing Mamurra had manufactured for the cavalry, the engineers had been hard at work in their absence. The cavalry reached the near bank and plunged down into the water, despite the lack of obvious pursuit, fearing the possibility that two legions of Pompeian veterans would catch them on the bank.

  The near half of the ford was just the same as it had been when they crossed a week ago. If anything, it was worse. The flow of water had begun to wash away and spread the excess sediment, so it was deeper now, and the river bed less stable. The other side, though, was already a vast improvement. Mamurra and his engineers had been working on the crossing, implanting huge boles of trees in the river bed to give it a solid, slightly raised surface. They had also widened the crossing even further with a new trench to lower the flow. The Caesarian bank of the river was now carefully built up and secure.

  The cavalry flooded across the ford and made for the camp, and Galronus pushed his mount out to the front once more, arriving at the gate where Caesar and the staff had gathered, and slipping from his exhausted horse, wobbling only a moment as he found the strength in his legs and feet.

  ‘General,’ he saluted.

  ‘Galronus. You arrive at speed?’

  ‘I have much to tell, General.’

  Caesar beckoned, and the group hurried up the slope to the command tent at the camp’s centre. Once safely inside, where they could talk and with Ingenuus and his men standing guard outside, Caesar gestured for the Remi senator to go on.

  ‘The enemy are leaving, Caesar. Their location is no longer strong, and they are making for more forgiving lands with better positioning.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Antonius queried.

  ‘Two legions have already crossed the Sicoris, presumably at night and unseen by your men. They are building a bridgehead fort at the far side of the bridge. There is a series of depots in a line from that side of the bridge all the way to the town of Octogesa, but a couple of miles downstream from that place, a cohort or two of Pompeians are constructing a pontoon bridge of impounded vessels across the Iberus. There can be no doubt that they mean to run, and soon.’

  Caesar took a deep breath and turned to examine the map of Hispania on the wall. His finger ran down the vellum from Ilerda, found Octogesa and then continued on across the lands to the south.

  ‘That will take him deep into the Celtiberian heartland. There the staunchest supporters of Pompey remain, as well as a number of fortresses that have remained unbroken since the time of Scipio. If Petreius makes it there we will be fighting over the winter, and even then success is far from certain.’

  Galronus nodded. ‘Respectfully, General, if they cross the Iberus, then this campaign is likely lost.’

  Again, Caesar nodded. ‘And if they are prepared to defend the bridge, with two legions across, they are ready to go.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Hades take the man, but Petreius is clever. He knows when to run and won’t let some sense of nobility stop him. I suspect Afranius is less sure, but clearly they have settled on this course together somehow. To move all our legions and support across the bridges will take the better part of a week. We could move on without the support, but we press ever deeper into Pompeian territory and we’ve all seen, with the arrival at Ilerda, how lacking support affects an army.’

  ‘Send the cavalry,’ Salvius Cursor put in. ‘They can move fast, can cross the new ford and we have thousands of them.’

  Galronus glared at the tribune. ‘But there is simply no chance of the cavalry, even if I take every last horse, stopping them. It has to be a full force, including legionaries.’

  Caesar met Galronus’ gaze. ‘But you could slow them down and irritate them. Buy time for men to cross. I know you have just returned from a very hard, yet fruitful, expedition, my Remi friend, but I must prevail upon you once more. Take every rider we have across the river. Harry them and badger them. Do not allow them time to think or prepare. Do not put yourselves at risk, though,’ he added pointedly. ‘I do not intend to sacrifice my cavalry. But slow them where you can. In the meantime, we move carefully. Petreius likely does not know that we are aware of his plans and will be working to his own schedule. If we make it clear we intend to stop him, he might simply run ahead of schedule. We need time.’

  The general turned to Antonius. ‘Have the legions fall in one cohort at a time. Tell their officers to leave quietly, without fuss or musicians, through the far gate travelling quickly and at distance. Get them up to the bridge one at a time and start them crossing. The more men we can get across before Petreius leaves, the better our chances of facing him.’

  Fronto, who had been silent and still throughout, straightened.

  ‘Why not take the infantry across the ford?’

  Mamurra shook his head. ‘The depth and current are too dangerous. Even if the men crossed successfully the death toll would probably be appalling. No, the ford was carefully planned to lower the water enough for cavalry.’

  ‘Too deep,’ the legate mused. Fronto’s eyes narrowed, and Galronus almost laughed out loud. Whatever his friend might say, the Remi knew that Fronto was already seeing himself slogging across the torrent with a shield above his head.

  ‘Very well,’ Caesar said. ‘Legions slowly moving out and to the bridge, cavalry over the ford to keep the enemy busy. That is, I believe, the best we can do at this particular moment.’

  But Fronto’s eyes were still narrowed as he calculated.

  Chapter Thirteen

  25th of Quintilis - Ilerda

  Fronto was starting to think about sleeping in his full kit, since it seemed that every time he bedded down for the night, someone woke him and made him leave his tent. Now, as the legionary Felix had sent hovered outside, Fronto hurriedly fastened his belt, threw his cloak about his shoulders and pinned it, and slipped into his boots, giving them a quick tie and then emerging into the sultry Hispanic night beneath a blanket of black, studded with glittering silver stars.

  ‘Come on, then.’

  With the legionary escort, he hurried across to the command tent, which was already rumbling with the conversation of officers, a gold glow peeking out around the door. Rubbing his eyes and stretching, the legate of the Eleventh nodded to the Praetorian guards to either side and then entered. Many of the officers were already gathered, and a weary looking cavalryman stood by the general’s table. Caesar looked untouched by sleep, which was nothing new.

  Over only a short wait, others arrived and took their position. Once everyone was present, and Antonius ran a quick head count and nodded to Caesar, the general stepped forward to the table and leaned on it with balled fists.

  ‘Before we proceed further, gentlemen, I am going to let Figulus here repeat the account he delivered to me a little over half an hour ago. Figulus?’

  The cavalry soldier stepp
ed forward and rolled his shoulders.

  ‘The enemy are all-but gone.’

  There was a general murmur of disbelief and derision among the officers, but a single glare from Caesar, and Antonius’ clearing of throat, soon put a stop to it and Figulus continued.

  ‘From the camp’s vantage point, very little has changed, I can see. The cook fires still burn and the men are still on the walls. But I can assure you, sirs, that the bulk of the army of Petreius and Afranius have quit Ilerda. The cavalry have been keeping the two legions across the river penned in their new fort since we crossed, though there was little we could do to actually harm them. They have solid defences and a good working Roman knowledge of contra equitas tactics. But we harry them and keep them hungry, preventing forage, and we’ve watched them.’

  He sighed and stretched. The man was paying little of the due deference one would expect in the presence of senior officers, but then Fronto had seldom seen a man look so weary and dishevelled. The rider had been in the saddle for days with precious little rest.

  ‘Our scouts caught sight of the sneaky bastards a couple of hours ago. They had opened up a small postern facing the river, unobserved by the various pickets and outriders. The legionaries were leaving in a small but steady trickle, crossing the bridge quietly and joining their mates in the new fort. In fairness, Prefect Galronus had questioned why the camp had needed to be so big if it was just a bridgehead. We managed to catch one of their scouts and a bit of judicious slapping revealed that they’ve been doing that for three nights. Only a small rear guard remains in the camp to grant you the illusion of full defence. Even before I was sent back here with the warning, the enemy legions in the bridge camp were preparing to leave. Almost certainly they’re on the move by now.’

  Caesar nodded to him, and he stepped back.

  ‘So there you have it, gentlemen. Petreius and Afranius are cleverer than we thought. Faced with growing odds against them and a lack of supplies, they decided to quit and move west to more friendly territory. They have set up a pontoon crossing of the Iberus which they can destroy afterwards and effectively cut off any pursuit. They have a system of depots in place from Ilerda to the crossing, which means they likely have sufficient supplies to see themselves to safety no matter what we’ve done to them. They have made a solid defence of the far side of their stone bridge and moved the bulk of their men out to it under our very noses. Now they are leaving that fort, with only a minimal rear guard left to slow us. If they reach that pontoon bridge, then this campaign has failed. And if this campaign fails, then the knock on effect will be disastrous. If we are bogged down here in an endless fight with Pompey’s men, then Pompey himself is at leisure to return to Italia and regain control, at which point we will be in a worse position than we were in Ravenna at the start of all this.’

  ‘No pressure, then,’ said Fabius, earning himself a glare from the general.

  ‘We are left in somewhat dire straits, gentlemen. We need to stop them, but we simply do not have the time.’

  ‘Can the cavalry not stop them once they leave the fort and are on the move?’ Plancus mused.

  ‘They will certainly slow them a little,’ put in Varus, a man more than familiar with the capabilities of the cavalry. ‘But no, they number perhaps a third as many bodies as the army they face, and the enemy know how to deal with cavalry. At best they will be able to harry them and irritate, pick off scouts and wagons, create trouble for them. They will cause casualties, but to actually fully commit against them would be more or less suicide.’

  Plancus nodded his understanding.

  ‘What about the legions who’ve been crossing the bridge to the north, General?’ Fabius said. ‘There must be two legions assembled there by now.’

  ‘There are,’ the general answered with a nod. ‘But they’re a few miles further away. They can catch up and commit, but even in conjunction with the cavalry they would be facing insurmountable odds. The only way we can hope to stop them reaching that bridge is by fielding a force against them strong enough to make them turn and face us. We need to get most, if not all, of our men against them and before they can reach the Iberus.’

  ‘Can you not now take the stone bridge?’ Mamurra mused. ‘If only a small rear guard remains in the camp, they must be inadequate to protect the bridge. And if the enemy have used it, then why not us?’

  ‘A good thought,’ Caesar conceded, ‘which had occurred to me, but there are three problems with it. Firstly, although it is a wider and stronger bridge than our ones upstream, it still acts as a funnel and it will take our men quite some time to cross it. Also, though we know they have left a rear guard, we cannot be certain what it entails. I doubt Petreius has entrusted his back to a force inadequate to protect it. If our men move across the saddle toward that bridge, I suspect we will find burning tree trunks rolled down on us and the like. Walking into the unknown could be carnage. And there is every chance that the enemy have slighted the bridge as they left, anyway. While we’ve had no intelligence to that effect, it is what I would do, so I have to assume the same of them. A few well-placed blows to weaken the bridge and then the first attempt to cross sends half a cohort of men to their death. No, the bridge is too risky a proposition.’

  The room fell quiet again.

  Fronto had been listening to the debate with growing irritation, and almost jumped when he realised Salvius Cursor had moved around the room and was now standing at his side. The tribune leaned close, his voice a sibilant whisper.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Fronto.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘And you’re right. For once, I damn well agree with you. Make them see it. The general listens to you.’

  Fronto turned, half expecting to see some sly expression on the tribune’s face, this being a move in one of his games, though there was nothing but earnestness in his expression. That worried Fronto more than any opposition from the man. If Salvius agreed with him, then there was a good chance that what he was thinking was criminally insane. But it had the single advantage of being the only option.

  ‘Come with me,’ Fronto said, loudly, and turned and walked from the tent.

  There was a series of surprised murmurs in the room, and Fronto was already striding down the Via Principalis of the camp with Salvius Cursor at his heel before the first of the officers emerged from the tent.

  ‘Fronto, stop being so theatrical,’ shouted Antonius, though there was humour in his voice as he and Caesar hurried down the road after the legate. By the time they reached the equisio, Fronto had grabbed a horse from the corral and mounted, not bothering with a saddle. Salvius joined him and they rode out through the camp gate.

  By the time they reached the site of the ford, three miles upstream, the rest of the officers were on horseback and catching up. Fronto approached the ford quickly, the water glittering in the moonlight, silver sparkles on a bed of black. He swallowed. It looked a lot deeper and faster now than it had in his head.

  Four cohorts of men were encamped next to the ford, with pickets out ,but no proper defences – the workforce who were strengthening the ford. As the bemused staff officers reined in behind them, Fronto slid from his horse, Salvius right behind him, and stomped down to the eight man tent party who stood watch over the ford.

  ‘You,’ he shouted to one of them.’ Strip to your tunic and belt.’

  The man, shocked, stood unmoving for a moment, then realised who it was who had given him an order and, with the help of his mate, unfastened his helmet and sword, dropped his shield and then peeled off the mail shirt. At Fronto’s gesture, he stood back. To the general amusement of the gathered officers, Fronto crouched, tipped the shield face down and piled the rest of the soldier’s gear onto it. Bracing himself – it took little these days to remind Fronto that he was no longer a young man – he lifted the shield, the burden dreadful, the large curved board supporting a weight in iron and steel and bronze and leather. Grunting, and wondering whether he was being brave a
nd foolhardy or just plain old and foolish, he hefted the shield and slowly, trying not to look too much as though he was struggling, lifted it above his head. Parts of his body issued alarming creaks.

  Finally, he settled it in place and, though his arm muscles screamed at the weight, it was better with them raised and locked than it had been actually lifting the thing. He could remember less than a decade ago in Cremona, just before Caesar had taken them north into Gaul, lifting this weight and more and barely breaking a sweat. Gods, but he’d become old in Gaul.

  ‘Fronto, don’t be an arse,’ Antonius grinned from the turf above the ford.

  ‘Fronto, the water is too deep,’ Fabius added, echoing Mamurra’s words as the old engineer nodded his agreement.

  ‘If it’s too deep, then it just means you’re too short,’ Fronto snapped, and turned, walking into the river.

  It was all he could do not to shout out in shock as the freezing cold water closed on his ankles. It was like sloshing into ice. He shivered and stepped forward again. To his dismay his leg sank in almost to the knee at the second step, and he almost lost his balance, teetering on the submerged log surface. Slowly righting himself, he moved on. Fortunately that was the steepest drop for a while, and he slogged through the numbing cold of the Sicoris until he was twenty paces out from the bank. There, he stopped and turned, intending to grin to the watchers and confirm how easy it was.

  His face remained immobile. The officers on the bank were watching, full of concern. Three soldiers had stripped down to their underwear, preparing to dive in and swim to his rescue. The only one who seem to have any kind of confidence was Salvius, who, fully clothed, had followed him into the water and was four paces behind.