FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  He couldn’t be made a legate, of course. That would be too much of a step. But until a man of appropriate breeding and history could be found, Bucco was the de facto leader of the legion anyway. As such, he had entered the whole new world of the senior officer. And he was already so sick of it, he was beginning to wish he’d been born an insignificant pleb.

  Afranius and Petreius could not even agree on the colour of a summer sky. The army was lucky to have lasted as long as it had. It would not last much longer. Half the officers didn’t hate Caesar, and many of those men had oddly fond memories of when he had served as questor or governor in Hispania. Their dubious loyalties did nothing to close the divide between the two commanders.

  Then they had left Ilerda. Seemed like a sensible choice to Bucco. And they’d done it with cleverness and subtlety despite everything. All was prepared, and yet suddenly Caesar’s cavalry were everywhere, causing disasters and slowing them, and Caesar’s infantry, who should have been bogged down on the other side of the river, were instead chasing them across the plains south-west of Ilerda, heading for the mountains.

  Then they had finally stopped on the hill. At the moment of crisis, Petreius had almost struck Afranius. One had been all for marching on through the night and crossing the pontoon. The other had, almost certainly correctly, advocated turning to face the enemy since Caesar would clearly do anything in his power to stop them. No one had seemed to know what to do. Oddly, it had been Bucco’s comment that had saved the day, yet again. He had railed in relative privacy about his seniors’ failure to keep the army together, and his own camp prefect had told him ‘quite right’ and had given the orders for the signals for every legion. The Second had been responsible for pulling it all together, and while Bucco had not given the order himself, he knew he was the reason it had been given.

  Now here they were, sitting on a low hill, not far from the valleys that would spell relative safety from the cavalry, while Caesar’s army sat on another low rise opposite, the two like alley cats on fences each waiting for the other to howl first.

  Yet despite the proximity of danger, the officers of the Pompeian force had called for consilium and, instead of planning what to do next, had used the past half hour to sling insults at one another. There was no homogeneity of command. No solidarity. Just the sort of chaos that even Bucco, whose military experience had all been born from being thrown into the shit this past month, knew would only end in defeat. He listened to one of Petreius’ men – a career soldier with a leather face and a caustic voice – heap insults on Afranius’ heritage. He listened to Afranius’ senior legate tell Petreius that he was ‘just a soldier’ and should have stayed in Lusitania where the strongest enemy were the whores waiting to lighten his purse. They almost came to blows again and Bucco found himself stepping angrily out of the tent and away from the mess caused by his commanders.

  No one seemed to notice him go. Half the men were busy weighing in with their spite and bile on behalf of one general or the other, and the rest were trying not to become involved, considering the future of their career instead.

  Breathing deeply of the warm night air, he stepped away from the command tent and walked until he could no longer hear the raised voices. What kind of way was that to run an army? When even the auxiliaries in the latrines could hear the generals calling each other names. Trying not to be dismayed by the situation, he continued to the standards of the Second Vernacular, which stood proud at the high point of the hill. With a wedge-like shape, the lower end of the mound was commanded by the cavalry with a legion in support, for the horse could operate best there if the enemy suddenly decided to come. The high end, where the Second were encamped, was of such a height that he imagined he might still see Ilerda during good daylight.

  Right now what he could see were the glowing camp fires of Caesar’s army. They were not in a besieging position. They were camped on another rise close by. Perhaps they would have been wiser to try and besiege the Pompeians. Here, the legions had no access to water, while an unnamed stream ran right past Caesar’s army. But even Bucco, with his very limited military knowledge, knew why Caesar was not attacking. His men would be as tired as the Pompeians, if not more so. They needed a night to recover.

  And no matter how much Afranius and Petreius might argue, they would naturally settle on the decision to move in the morning. After all, they had been planning this departure for so long, everything was in place. The legions would leave and would move to the bridge, with Caesar nipping at their heels, and would cross. There was a good chance their rear guard would end up in a fight with Caesar’s vanguard while the pontoon bridge was destroyed and cast adrift, but that could not be helped. The man was fast and tenacious. But the bulk of the army would escape, and then the Ulterior legions would join them and the various native levy units of central Hispania would ally, and suddenly Caesar would be vastly outnumbered and would have to either run or face defeat.

  The young tribune nodded to the signifer who stood on guard at the standards, which rested in bases specially constructed for such times, each pole with its own socket. A small honour guard of legionaries formed a protective ring around the sacred symbols, and Bucco smiled to see the respect and sense among his men. The senior officers might be like a bunch of ferrets slung together in a sack, but the legions were still the pride of the republic.

  He came to rest at a frame where earlier cooking pots had hung, and leaned on the sturdy timber, looking out into the purple world. It was not a bright night. Despite the warmth and heat, high, scudding clouds obscured half the sky, blanking out the twinkling stars and hiding the waning gibbous moon. He had stood here earlier, before the officers had been called to the meeting, and peered out at the enemy camp. It had made his breath catch in his throat. Caesar’s wolves were organised and impressive, and the man had brought his army at incredible speed with virtually no supplies. At the time, the moon had been out and the enemy camp had been abundantly clear. Now, Bucco could see little but the many glowing fires across the hill.

  He found himself questioning his earlier certainty. Would they get to the bridge? Would they manage to cross? They should do. They had every advantage. But Caesar had proved himself to be more than just a thorn in their side at every step so far, and it would be complacent of them to assume safety now. Of course they were moving into the hills, and within an hour’s march they would be in valleys between high peaks where the threat of the proconsul’s ever-present cavalry would be largely nullified. Horse could not operate effectively in such terrain.

  Bucco’s gaze strayed across the enemy camp once more, picking out the large darker areas where there were no fires, where the cavalry had their horses corralled. Something odd struck him as he did so, but it was one of those thoughts like the touch of a butterfly, which dusted the edge of his mind and was gone in an instant. He frowned.

  He repeated his scan, his eyes playing across the enemy force from left to right, from the northern edge, where he knew from earlier observations the latrines to be concentrated, across the camp, toward the southern end, where the general had placed his most impressive veteran troops.

  No, he still couldn’t quite catch it. What had he noticed?

  No fires? No, that wasn’t it. The areas without fires were corrals, as he had noted. So what was it? The fires were blazing, which was reasonable, despite the heat of the Hispanic night. There would be men drying clothes, cooking late evening food, sitting round them and laughing, with no fear of needing to keep their fires hidden. Both armies knew each other were there, so there was no need to go short on anything.

  Both armies knew each other were there.

  Blazing fires.

  He was hurrying back past the standards a moment later, finding a different vantage point. He had to be sure. He couldn’t interrupt his seniors mid-childish argument without being certain. Pausing at another position, where two crates rested atop one another, he peered off into the gloom with hungry, narrowed eyes. Too dark. Just too
dark.

  The moon broke through the cloud for the briefest of moments, a shining blast of silvery light that played along the landscape and was gone in a trice. It had been enough. The enemy ranks were thin, and the tightly-ordered area of veteran legions at the southern end was now occupied by the ranks of the cavalry.

  It had all been seen in the blink of an eye, but he knew he’d been right, now. What he’d noticed was that he could see the fires too clearly. They were not obscured by crowds of men, as they should have been. The soldiers were not at the fires and it was not yet late enough for them all to be abed. So where had they gone?

  The slopes opposite seemed to be covered in camp fires and spread out groups of cavalry. The infantry had gone.

  ‘When did they go?’ he said, grabbing a startled legionary guarding the supplies. The man blinked in incomprehension.

  ‘Caesar’s legions. They’ve gone. They’re not in the camp. That’s just the cavalry. They cannot have moved out without being seen. You have to have seen them leave. When did they go?’

  The legionary shrugged in perplexity. ‘I… no idea, sir.’

  Bucco released the man and turned, running back across the slope toward the command tent. He couldn’t hear the arguing now, but that might be because of the blood thundering in his ears as he pounded across the grass. Two guards made to stop him as he approached the tent, but recognised him as the young tribune who’d recently ducked out, and they stepped back, saluting.

  Bucco burst into the tent to see the two generals at a table, arguing over a map of the area, various officers clustered around them, but the conversation stopped and every face looked up, turning to this intrusion.

  ‘Caesar’s on the move,’ he said in a burst of words between heaving breaths. His seniors’ faces creased into frowns. Swallowing and taking one deep, preparatory breath, he tried to slow his pulse. ‘The camp opposite is almost entirely cavalry. The legions have gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ replied Afranius, his face pasted with disbelief.

  ‘They were there two hours ago, sir,’ Bucco replied. ‘I saw them with my own eyes. But since then it’s clouded over. I think Caesar has used the cover of darkness to slip out of the camp. His infantry are gone. He’s left just the cavalry there.’

  ‘You’re sure of this?’ Petreius said in a quiet voice.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve just seen it for myself.’

  He stepped forward into the gap that had opened up among the officers. Petreius and Afranius looked at one another, their previous disagreement now forgotten, then peered down at the map.

  ‘Why would they go?’ Afranius muttered.

  ‘Where would they go?’ replied Petreius.

  There was an uncomfortable silence. ‘They must know about Octogesa. The bridge.’

  Petreius’ frown deepened. ‘They can’t. Their cavalry have been concentrated near us, harrying our foragers. Caesar’s been behind us all the way.’

  A man in a prefect’s uniform on the far side of the table cleared his throat nervously. ‘That might not be true, sir.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘Well, sir, one of the units that had been on patrol in the valley above Portus Iberus was fallen upon and slaughtered a few days ago. Seventy men or so, both legionaries and auxilia.’

  ‘And why am I hearing about this now?’ Petreius said, a dangerous edge to his tone.

  ‘The hills hereabouts are always dangerous, sir. Bandits and tribes who still resent Roman peace being settled upon them. There are such men all around, and it’s not unheard of for small units to be killed by such men. That’s why we rarely keep such minimal numbers out in patrols. We naturally assumed they had pissed off the logging communities or disturbed a bandit camp or some such.’

  ‘But it is possible,’ Afranius put in, ‘indeed, highly likely given this turn of events, that it was Caesar’s men who killed them and that he knows about the route of our travel and that the pontoon bridge is there?’

  ‘I suppose so, sir.’

  Petreius nodded to Afranius and the two men looked down at the map again.

  ‘If Caesar knows about the bridge and his men have been in the valley, then they probably know that’s the only viable approach. He would have to take his men on a wide circuit to get round us safely and unnoticed, and the terrain he’d have to cross is not good, and gets worse as they move south. He cannot hope to beat us there in a race.’

  Petreius shook his head. ‘I disagree. His legions are unencumbered. They did not bring supply wagons and the like. They travel like Marius’ Mules, with everything they need on their back. They’re hardened veterans, and we know how damn fast they can move. They should still be on the other side of the Sicoris panicking about catching us up. Instead they caught up with us in less than a day. Caesar knows where he’s going, and he’s no fool. If he’s making for the valley and the bridge with his legions, then it’s no desperate attempt. He believes he can do it. And if he believes he can do it, then he probably can. We need to drop our supplies and move fast. He has anything up to two hours’ head start, and might have been slipping men away earlier than that, like we did at Ilerda. Damn the man, but he’s used our own strategy against us.’

  Afranius turned to the camp prefect. ‘How long will it take to get the army moving?’

  ‘Properly, sir? Two hours.’

  ‘And if we leave the tents and everything we don’t need?’

  ‘An hour, sir.’

  Petreius shook his head. ‘Another hour for Caesar to move. And he’s left his cavalry for a reason other than just the look of things. The moment we move, they’ll be on us like a cloud of hornets, irritating and troubling us, slowing us down. We have to move now and we have to leave the wagons.’

  Afranius straightened. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Quite apart from the food, they contain all the weapons, spare armour, the pay for the men, the artillery and all the miscellaneous equipment. We can’t afford to just throw it away. Caesar will certainly make use of it.’

  ‘How much damned use will it be if Caesar’s men seal off our route and we’re trapped on this side of the Iberus? Every day in Ilerda another unit went over to the man. Soon our own legions will start to desert to the enemy.’

  ‘And if you starve them and lose their pay it’ll happen all the sooner. We need those wagons.’

  Petreius rounded on his fellow general. ‘Then your legions can guard them. Mine are making for the Iberus at full speed.’

  Bucco sagged. Even now his commanders could not decide on a course of action. What it must be like to be an officer in Caesar’s army…

  * * *

  Caesar stood on the slope of the valley with a satisfied smile. Four legions were arrayed across the mouth of the vale that led down to the enemy’s pontoon bridge. They were tired. There was no denying that. But they were also resolute and knew that they had turned the tide, and spirit can, for a time, replace rest.

  They had slipped away in the darkest hours of the night and moved through valleys parallel to the one in which the two armies had camped. The going had been dreadful. Even with Galronus’ advice and the scouts ranging ahead, they had been forced to cross awful terrain. Down steep valley sides, skidding and losing their footing, up steep valley sides, staggering, and hauling on undergrowth to aid the climb. On one notable occasion, they’d even had to descend a jagged rocky slope, which had cost the lives of a number of men. Yet Caesar and his officers had borne the worst of it along with their soldiers, and the enthusiasm of the army flagged only rarely.

  Arriving finally in the valley just as the sun neared its zenith, the officers had been concerned that the enemy might have beaten them. If they had learned of the deception quickly enough and had discarded the slowest and most cumbersome elements of their column, they might even now be on the bridge. Upon their arrival, Caesar had sent a fast unit of riders down to the Iberus, and they had come back with confirmation that the enemy had not managed to get ahead of them. As they returned from the river, they were
chased by small units that had been set to guard the valley, but once they caught sight of the four legions, they broke off pursuit and melted away into the trees.

  In a small attempt to rest his exhausted men, Caesar had sent scouts out to keep an eye on the approaches and give them adequate warning of the enemy’s approach, and had then let all four legions fall out and rest, if in position and with weapons and armour to hand.

  They had managed almost an hour before the scouts came back, bellowing their warnings.

  Afranius and Petreius’ army put in an appearance a quarter of an hour later. Their vanguard, formed of Hispanic cavalry units with a few regular turma among them, emerged from another shallow valley and onto the wide ‘Y’ shaped plain where the road forked. The small village that rested at the foot of the hill had evacuated at the sight of Caesar’s army, the population now somewhere safe, probably observing proceedings with bated breath. Whether they favoured Caesar or Pompey, or neither, the fact remained that any battle fought here might destroy their homes and livelihood.

  Fronto, standing not far from Caesar, with his Eleventh Legion arrayed before him, watched the enemy carefully. The vanguard flooded out onto the plain but drew up in groups far from contact with the waiting legions. There appeared to be some sort of confab occurring, and the Caesarian officers watched with interest as the rest of the Pompeian army began to arrive, the officers near the front. More consultation, more delays, and a decision made. Turning aside from their original path, the bulk of the enemy veered off to their right, making for the slopes of a hill on the far side of the low depression.