FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Bear in mind,’ Fronto shouted, ‘that after this cold bath, I shall want a warm one!’

  There was no laughter at his comment. Just more concern.

  Turning once more, Fronto moved on. Another five paces and the river bed dropped away again, the water sliding up his tunic and touching his nethers, making him wince and wonder if it was possible to pee through a frozen prick.

  On he moved. He could no longer feel his feet. It was like lifting appendages encased in lead blocks. The water was providing more and more resistance the further out he moved, and he could feel the current trying to pull him down toward Ilerda and beyond, to the great River Iberus.

  Again, somewhere around a third of the way across, the water rose once more and he found himself submerged to the waist. The going was becoming incredibly slow now and required every ounce of effort he could muster to heave his way through the constant, battering torrent. Still he slogged on, aware of Salvius Cursor just a heartbeat or two behind him. If there was one thing he was not prepared to do, it was fail in front of the tribune.

  He found the end of the new work rather suddenly as his foot left the heavy timber boles and sank into sludge. For just a moment, he was almost gone downstream. He tipped to the side, his other leg flailing in the water and then slapping down into the soft river bed. Even as he swayed and the weight on the shield above his head threatened to send him under, the soft bed gave a little under his feet and his head vanished beneath the surface.

  He panicked, then fought the panic, then panicked some more, but a moment later managed to free a leg and took a step forward, his other foot coming up. One found a rock and managed to steady him as his face emerged from the water and he coughed wildly. The water tasted of silt. And worse. He heaved in several deep cleansing breaths and took another pace forward, the water lapping at his chin, the shield still miraculously dry and held over his head. It was odd how you could trick your body into forgetting its woes by introducing it to new ones. The pain in his arms holding up the shield had been forgotten with the cold of the water, and now that had been consigned to history with the terror of the depth and sinking beneath the surface. Sadly, he couldn’t imagine what new horror waited to make him forget that problem. Perhaps there was a pike in the water the size of a horse? That would do it…

  Though it was febrile imagining, the sudden thought of what living terrors a river could hold made him push on with fresh force. He glanced over his shoulder. Salvius was still there, and he could see the other officers at the riverbank beyond. He was over half way across the Sicoris.

  Determination flooded through him at the realisation and he ploughed on through the pulling torrent, struggling, finding the few hard footings he could and fighting every foot of the way. He fervently wished he could touch and kiss the small figure of Fortuna that hung on the thong around his neck, but both hands were occupied with the heavy load on the shield.

  When his foot suddenly found higher ground and he stepped forward, feeling his chest emerge from the water, he almost cried with relief. Then, another five paces and he was up to his waist. Now, the going was easier and, combined with his triumphant relief at being across, he slogged quickly through the remaining shallows, first his groin, then knees emerging from the water. Finally, he was out and stomping up the bank, where he gratefully lowered the shield to the ground and rubbed his aching arms.

  Salvius Cursor sloshed out of the water and stood beside him.

  ‘Thought you were screwed for a moment.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘I nearly had my legateship, I reckon.’

  Fronto almost laughed, presuming it to be a joke, albeit a poor one, but as he looked at Salvius the man was not smiling, and he suddenly wondered if the tribune had been serious. Trying not to think on it further, Fronto, shivering like a leaf in a breeze, waved at the distant figures on the far bank.

  ‘I’m not tall and I’m not young. If I can make it, so can the legions.’

  There was a distant burst of cheering from the cohorts on the far bank.

  ‘You’re insane,’ bellowed Antonius.

  ‘And cold,’ replied Fronto. ‘Can you send someone over with a hot towel and a jug of wine?’

  * * *

  Dawn greeted struggling men and barked commands as the legions slogged across the ford. Though Fronto had been joking and had intended to find an easier way back across, Antonius had taken him at his word and over the next half hour had sent big, burly legionaries across the ford with towels, dry clothes and cloaks, food and wine, and finally two tents. Fronto had passed out to catch a last couple of hours of sleep before the day broke in a tiny encampment of twelve men, with two tents and a cook fire.

  Up once more at dawn, and yawning with every other breath, Fronto had been impressed with how quickly Caesar had moved during the night. Clearly the general had not rested. He had brought the legions to the crossing, while Mamurra and Antonius had kept the cohorts here at work through the hours of darkness, hurriedly dropping what timbers they could into the deeper stretch in an attempt to help.

  By the time the first man crossed – in no danger, since it was Fabius on horseback – Fronto had eaten a dry, small breakfast and was standing barefoot in fresh tunic and cloak on the turf, his boots still hanging on the tent post, drying.

  As the men struggled into the water behind Fabius and began the mammoth task of crossing the Sicoris, the biggest and most stable men first, marking out the best route and any dangerous sections, Fabius reined in.

  ‘We’re leaving one legion behind to secure Ilerda and the enemy camp and bridge. The two legions up at the north crossing are already coming down to join us here.’ He grinned. ‘It was one of the strangest sights I’ve ever seen. Four legions lined up on the flat ground, while the centurions went down the lines and tapped anyone who was too small. All the short, stocky men were separated out and formed a temporary legion. They’re staying here with the weak and the infirm to secure the place. Any man crossing the Sicoris is the best part of six feet tall now.’

  Fronto rolled his eyes. ‘Wonderful. That makes me officially the shortest person in Caesar’s army now.’

  Fabius dismounted and opened his mouth to say something pithy, but Fronto shook his head. ‘I’ve got to go for a piss. Too much water and wine for me overnight.’

  ‘Go downstream, or you won’t be popular.’

  Fronto snorted and sauntered off to a more secluded spot a hundred paces downstream toward Ilerda, where a scrubby thicket of bushes masked a dip down to the water with a small gravel beach. His heart sank as he rounded the bush and spotted Salvius Cursor busy fastening his subligaculum and straightening his tunic. He then dipped his hands in the river, upstream from his current position and, causing Fronto to frown, reached down into his belt pouch and pulled out a small unguent jar which he opened and began to apply to his hands.

  It seemed odd to see a man who seemed utterly at home covered in blood and shit and filth pampering himself with balms and oils after washing in a river. Stepping back behind the bush, Fronto cleared his throat and then emerged again down to the beach. He nodded at Salvius, who continued to apply his ointment, nodding back casually.

  Wondering at the strange variation in the world of men, Fronto stepped past him, pulled up his tunic and tucked it into the belt, yanked aside his subligaculum and let out an arc of steaming yellow with a sigh of blissful relief.

  He almost covered himself in his own urine as a commotion broke out upstream at the ford and, quickly pinching off the flow and dropping his tunic, Fronto stepped out into the water, his bare feet baulking once more at the chill. A man had fallen while crossing the river. Two other men had obviously dropped their own burdens and leapt to help. One of his would-be saviours was struggling to stay upright. The other had similarly slipped and followed his friend into the water. Neither of the men wore their mail shirts – that would have been stupid – but their shields and all their gear had gone, tipped into the deep or floatin
g off downstream, and the two men were in serious danger.

  It sounded like a simple thing, crossing a river without armour on. But having done it during the night, Fronto knew different. The chill of the water and the constant batter and pull of the current stole the strength and sapped the will, and the longer one fought the water, the worse it got. The first man was already barrelling downstream at pace, probably unconscious, maybe even dead. The second was half-carried, half-swimming, after him, screaming and cursing, the sound intermittently dampened as his face dipped below the surface.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Fronto had run out five paces into the river and then thrown himself into the deeper torrent. Ignoring Salvius’ bellowing voice behind him, he swam hard, angling upstream to fight the current, making to intercept the two unfortunate legionaries.

  It seemed to take forever, but finally he was close. He could see the man bobbing left and right as he was carried fast toward him. His heart sank as he registered the fact that the man was already dead. Regretfully, he changed his focus to the second man, who was still screaming and still dipping under the water.

  Something tugged at him and Fronto turned his head in surprise to see Salvius Cursor, pounding the water and yanking at him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Fronto. The man’s gone.’

  ‘If he’s shouting, he’s alive.’

  ‘He’s dead. He just doesn’t know it yet. And if you try and get him to the bank, you’ll go with him.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Salvius let go of him and began to swim back to the bank. ‘Leave him, Fronto. Don’t be an idiot.’

  Fronto watched as the panicked, shrieking man was carried past him, and then, finally robbed of the last of his strength and unable to fight it any more, disappeared beneath the water. The last Fronto saw of him was a couple of limbs flung up out of the torrent by the flow. Feeling the cold numbness now beginning to settle into his own limbs, Fronto turned and swam back to the shore.

  For some horrible reason, watching the poor bastard drown had brought back a welter of unwelcome emotions and the dreadful memory of Florus, the young medic who had been swept overboard, crossing the channel on that stupid foray to Britannia six years ago. The lad had become something of a pet project of Fronto’s following their first battle against the Helvetii, and still, on the anniversary of his passing, Fronto would find time, whatever he was doing, to pour a wine libation into a spring or stream somewhere, along with a prayer that Neptune be kind to him.

  Now, he was blisteringly angry. At the soldiers for dying. At Petreius and Afranius, and Pompey, for starting all of this, at himself for failing, but most of all at Salvius for distracting him and losing him a slim chance of saving the man. Oh, when he looked deep into his own heart, he couldn’t help but admit that the fallen soldier was almost certainly a goner anyway. There was only the faintest chance that Fronto could have caught him and stopped him flowing away. And as he staggered onto the gravel, he knew he had barely made it back himself, and that if he’d had to help a man on the way they’d almost certainly have both drowned. But just because Salvius was actually right didn’t take away the anger.

  Salvius Cursor returned his angry glare but neither man spoke as Fronto stomped past him and back up toward his small camp where he hoped there was still a towel and some spare dry clothing.

  * * *

  They caught up with the enemy late the next day.

  It seemed that, despite their limitations, Galronus had been thoroughly effective at slowing the enemy column as it left Ilerda. The baggage train of Petreius and Afranius’ army was relatively speedy, put together for pace and not content, relying mostly upon the depots they would pass, but the massive force had been picked at by the Caesarean cavalry throughout and had found downed trees or fallen rocks in the way – obstacles that had clearly been the work of Galronus’ outriders. They had moved slower than they had hoped.

  And the combination of moving without the support of wagons and artillery, and having crossed the river en masse earlier than expected had brought Caesar up behind them much faster than they had expected. They were only a few short miles southwest of Ilerda when the two armies came into sight almost a mile apart now.

  Fronto had half expected Petreius to drop his supplies and run for the bridge. Given the stakes they were all playing for now, the Pompeian commander had to realise that this was his last chance to get away without conflict at Ilerda. And being caught on the run played havoc with trying to mount an effective defence. Realistically the man had to either cut and run and hope to cross the bridge, or gird his loins and turn to face Caesar in the field.

  The fact that, upon sight of Caesar’s army catching them up, conflicting calls went up among the enemy suggested that they were once more prey to disagreements between their two commanders. Likely the ones sending their men ‘ad signum’ – to the standards – were Petreius preparing to take the Caesarian bull by the horns and poll it. And the calls to double time would be Afranius, ever wishing to avoid this conflict and making for the bridge at speed. The result was that the lead elements moved off at a hurry for the pontoon bridge on the Iberus, while the baggage train and the rear elements came to a halt.

  Caesar, eager to take advantage of the confusion, pressed his men onward and the legions marched at speed, but before battle could be joined the latest argument between the enemy leaders apparently resolved itself and the entire army came to a halt at a low hill half a mile from Fronto and his men. As they stomped and hoofed forward, they watched the enemy forming. Someone among them – probably not the two generals, given their unwillingness to cooperate – knew what they were doing. Even as the Caesarian force bore down on them, the carts and wagons were drawn up onto the rise, the auxilia and support with them, and the heavy legionaries were shuffled forward to take their place defending the slope.

  In the time it had taken Caesar’s army to force march a quarter of a mile, the enemy had turned flight and confusion into a solid line of defence with missile support. Fronto watched Caesar, sitting astride his white mare at the fore of the army, and knew immediately what was coming. A moment later the general’s arm rose and the call went out from the First Cohort’s musicians. The army came to an abrupt halt, the only noise across the plain the jingle and clatter of weapons and armour and the huffing and stretching of men and beasts. At the call for consilium, the senior officers gathered on Caesar’s position.

  Antonius huffed irritably. ‘We almost had an easy victory there.’

  The general shook his head. ‘There will be no easy victory against these men. Even when the generals argue, the legions are veterans and know what to do. We are left with a decision.’

  ‘Not a tough one, Caesar,’ Salvius Cursor scoffed. ‘We have them pinned on a hill.’

  Fronto frowned. He hadn’t invited Salvius to the officer’s meeting, and tribunes were not expected to attend. Caesar seemed not to notice, or perhaps not to care. ‘True, but the outcome of any push here is truly in the hands of the gods.’

  ‘They are on the defensive, General,’ Salvius pushed, ‘and they ran by night. They will be tired and in poor morale. After all, they have run away once.’

  Antonius gestured to the hill. ‘They did not run away. They are seeking a more favourable location to defy us. It matters not how you see it, or even how Caesar or I see it, but that is how every man on that hill sees it. They know they’ve done the sensible thing, and there is no cowardice among them, and I daresay very little fear either.’

  ‘But they are tired,’ persisted the tribune. Fronto could see the flash of anger cross Caesar’s eyes and, to head off a coming tirade, he turned to Salvius. ‘So are our men. They were also up during the night. They have slogged across the dangerous ford and lost friends to the waters. They have force marched to catch up with the enemy. Their spirits might be high, but their strength is not. They need to rest, else we chance everything by throwing tired men against
tired men.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Go back to the Eleventh, Tribune, and have a rider sent to find the cavalry. Bring Galronus and his men back in.’

  Salvius glared daggers at Fronto, but saluted and stomped off back toward the legion.

  ‘What do we do, General,’ he asked, when the tribune was gone.

  Caesar sighed and stretched.

  ‘We do the unexpected. For now we rest the men. Let them have the afternoon and the evening.’

  ‘And the night,’ added Antonius.

  ‘Ah, no. For the night, I have plans,’ smiled the general.

  Chapter Fourteen

  27th of Quintilis – south-west of Ilerda

  Publius Cassius Bucco, now senior tribune of the Second Vernacular Legion, had reached the limits of his patience. He was, by nature, a peaceful and fairly lazy individual, and he was a young man – almost certainly the most junior in the generals’ consilium that night. As the son of a well-to-do family of ancient blood and property wealth he had never had to suffer a task more onerous than playing nomenclator for his father, or learning his Herodotus. And he was no violent soldier. He was a serving Pompeian officer, but not because he hated Caesar. He had met Caesar precisely as often as he had met Pompey – to whit: never. He was simply playing the role the Fates had laid out for him.

  But his path had recently taken weird turns. He had suddenly found himself the senior officer in the field at that hill where the staff officers had been butchered by cavalry and the Caesarian legions had come to put an end to them. He had run away and taken the legions with him. He had brought the troops back to Ilerda to acclaim by the commanders. He’d half expected to be lynched for cowardice. But it seemed to be the considered opinion of everyone of import that he’d saved three legions. He’d been given some sort of crown that was itchy and heavy and he didn’t know what to do with.

  It had been said in the end that the whole thing was a ruse and that Caesar’s legions were not there. But somehow that didn’t seem to matter. He had done the right thing based on the information he had. He had been promoted to senior tribune. That was something that didn’t happen. Junior tribunes were assigned by the senate for a short stint. Senior tribunes were career officers with a history who were ready to step into high command. You didn’t move from the one to the other. But then, the situation here was hardly normal.