And they were close to the end.
The sounds of construction reached him across the landscape. Even as night fell, the men of the Ninth, and the furthest groups of the Eleventh, were busily digging and hammering, adzing and heaving, putting up a rampart and a low fence to seal off access to water.
His gaze dropped to his own men. Two cohorts of the Eleventh. The arc of defence formed by the legions under Plancus and Salvius ended several hundred paces west of here. He could see the termination of the line. His own cohorts – understrength, but still numbering over six hundred men, waited quietly, seated in the lee of the low rise.
The enemy came so suddenly Fronto almost missed them. Sixty or so horses thundering out of the darkness to the north, racing back from the river with paniers of life-giving water. They had clearly scouted out the Roman lines, for they had come out of the north, angled just right to clear the end of the Roman line. There they would have to ride like mad to make it to the Pompeian camp, for the Eleventh and Ninth would have their scorpions ready, but they could do it.
Or so they thought.
As soon as he spotted them, Fronto dropped to the ground and waved frantically at Albinus, the senior centurion of the two cohorts. Albinus waved back and began to give silent and whispered signals to his men where they sat in the shade of the hill.
Fronto turned his gaze back north. Sure enough, the horsemen were making almost straight for him, angling slightly so that they would round the far side of this small hillock, putting the rise between themselves and the Roman lines. Another quick gesture to Albinus to indicate where they would come, and Fronto threw a last look out across the grass to the approaching riders before dropping back down the slope and re-joining his men.
Dangerous work, but the riders had to be stopped.
The distant drumming of hooves on turf became slowly louder and louder as the horsemen approached. Gestures from the various centurions. The forces lay ready.
Albinus judged the time right and gave a single blast on his whistle.
The men of the Eleventh emerged from the lee of the hill at a run.
The Pompeian horsemen, taken aback by this sudden impediment, faced a choice. They could either attempt to ride over or through the Caesarian troops who had appeared from nowhere, or they could swing suddenly wide at the last moment and attempt to ride round them. In the darkness and the confusion, their plans changing even as they rode, chaos broke out among the horsemen. Some jerked on their reins and broke right, heading for the gap between Fronto’s men and the main arc of the Caesarian lines. Others instead hauled left, planning to wheel around the new arrivals and seek open ground to get to their camp. Yet more simply hunched down onto their horses and rode directly at the hastily assembling legionaries.
Fronto’s men were ready. Five centuries fell into the contra equitas formation, a two-tier shield wall, with the second level angled back, pila extended through the gaps like an iron hedge. Each century formed a single line eighty men long, with the third rank joining in the hedge of pila and the fourth and fifth ready with only swords, adding their shoulders to the bracing of the formation.
Twenty two cavalrymen charged the unit, though many of those desperately reined in or swerved when they realised what formation was assembling. Those who didn’t have time were largely thrown from desperately refusing horses or plunged into the shields, men and horses on both sides dying dreadfully.
Those riders who had broken left and right to skirt around the sudden appearance of legionaries fared no better. From the lee of the hill and the shelter several paces behind the shield wall, the remaining seven centuries pulled back their arms and marked their targets. Riders and horses alike were suddenly pinned and impaled with several hundred pila.
Fronto looked this way and that, saw a straggler from the enemy cresting the hill, and ran for him. The rider had spotted an opening, where Fronto’s men had all committed one way or another, and was racing desperately for the gap. Fronto knew there was little he could do to stop the man. A decade ago he might have attempted to jump up and haul the rider out of the saddle, or stick him with a sword. He was not fast or agile enough for that now. And with only his gladius and no shield, the only way to adequately wound the beast to stop it was to get underneath and likely be trampled in the process.
A thought occurred to him as the rider bore down, ignoring the paltry danger one poorly-armed office posed, and he glanced across at the nearest fallen horse.
With a grin, he set his legs wide, braced, ready to move. The rider saw his position and brought his shield down to cover his side and his leg as he rode directly past Fronto. But the shield was in the wrong place. Fronto’s sword lashed out just once, at neither rider nor horse. He might not be as agile or strong as he once had been, but he was clever, and he damn well knew how to use a sword.
The rider pelted on, whooping triumphantly, making for the Pompeian camp on the hill. He managed almost a hundred paces beyond the insane Roman defences when the strap holding the paniers full of water to the saddle snapped, having been almost entirely severed by Fronto’s sword thrust. The critical, life-giving containers slid from the back of the horse and thudded to the grass in the beast’s wake. The rider rode on, whooping, for several moments before he realised what had happened. He slowed his horse, turning, ashen faced, to look at the fallen water containers. Just for a moment, he started to trot back toward it, but three pila fell in his path, one punching straight through the leather panier and bursting its contents, water splashing out in every direction. His face registering his dismay, the lone rider turned and made for his camp, the only survivor of the water carrying expedition, and his bags empty.
Fronto turned and examined the results. A number of his men had died in the shield formation, but most had survived, and barring that one man, no rider had made it past. Several horses, wounded and unwounded, were wandering aimlessly around the grass and a number of fallen cavalrymen were rising, groaning and limping, holding wounded limbs. The legionaries were rounding them up at sword and pilum point, and Fronto cleared his voice wearily.
‘Let them go. Any man who wants to can return to his camp. Any who don’t, escort them around to our main force and deliver them to Marcus Antonius to deal with.’
The man nodded and moved to carry out his orders. Fronto let them get on with it and turned to look at the camp. It would all be over in the morning, one way or another. The enemy had failed in their last attempt to acquire water. Now all they could hope to do was surrender or fight.’
* * *
The second day of Sextilis dawned bright and clear, the hum of bees and chirrup of birds rising early. Fronto, once more back at the main camp ready for the morning briefing, stood with a cup of chilled water, leaning on a stack of shields and watching the camp on the hill. The place was a hive of activity.
‘What are they doing?’ Galronus murmured, tearing a grape from the bunch in his hand and popping it between his teeth where he crushed it and savoured the juice.
‘Who knows. Running. Fighting. Surrendering. Three unsavoury choices.’
Both armies had slept under the stars, each having departed a camp without taking the time to pack their tents. Both had eaten what little supplies they had, though Caesar’s army had been supplemented by carts emptying the various Pompeian depots they had found, while Petreius and Afranius’ men bit miserably into the bucellatum hardtack biscuits, their parched throats raked by the dry crumbs as they dreamed hungrily of cold water such as that in Fronto’s hand.
Musicians on the hill opposite began a cadence and the army of Pompey in Hispania moved to obey the call. Fronto straightened, ready to move. The swarm of men on the hill were falling into formation in their various units, standards to the fore. As the men turned ad signum, their shield faces became a wall of red and gold along the hillside.
‘They’re forming for war,’ Galronus said, breathlessly.
‘Shit,’ was all Fronto could find to say.
Behind him, calls went up for the troops to fall into their centuries, cohorts and legions.
‘Do we still go to the general, or form up with our men,’ Galronus asked quietly. They were expected to be part of Caesar’s staff meeting in a quarter of an hour, but the call to formation probably superseded that. ‘If Caesar wants us, he’ll send runners. For now we return to our units.’
The two men jogged back to the equisio’s compound, where Bucephalus and Eonna had been prepared for them. As they reached for their reins the two men clasped hands.
‘Good luck.’
‘You too. Fortuna watch over you.’
Galronus mounted and trotted away toward the assembling cavalry back along the valley. Fronto cantered around behind forming legionaries, back past the Ninth and toward the Eleventh, who were in position at the far end of the Caesarian line, where they had been last night.
As he rode, he watched the Pompeian army forming. Despite the deprivations and the desperation of each and every man on that hill, they were fully armoured and falling in to perfect formation. The legions moulded the front line, with the neat cohorts of auxilia behind, cavalry at the flanks, and they were moving at a sedate pace forward, down the slope, accompanied by the musicians’ melodies.
Caesar’s legions were forming fast in response, and by the time the Pompeian regulars were all down from the hill on the flat ground, Caesar’s lines were advancing to meet them. A series of calls went up and Fronto recognised those for the Ninth and Eleventh to pull back to the main force and join the formation. This was no longer about stopping them getting water. This was going to be a fight to the finish.
Already the Ninth and Eleventh were moving, coming back toward Fronto, but he could see two cohorts at the far end remaining in position. As the legions moved to answer Caesar’s summons, Fronto frowned and rode on toward the two cohorts who had not yet moved.
His gaze turned back over his shoulder and he could see the forming armies. His heart rose into his throat. The butcher’s bill for this fight was going to be appalling. And they were all soldiers of the Republic or trusted allies. There were no enemies of Rome here. Just sons and brothers. The Pompeian forces had stopped now, all on the flat ground before the hill. Caesar’s army had moved forward in order to achieve the room to form into legions. The result was that the two armies were close enough already that the front lines could probably smell each other’s breath. When the first volleys of pila flew, hundreds upon hundreds would die on both sides.
Madness.
Trying not to ponder on the coming apocalypse, Fronto focused on the two units ahead. Still those cohorts hadn’t moved. Fronto was closing on them now, waving an arm, trying to get the attention of any officer present. His heart sank as his irritation rose when he spotted a chestnut mare at the rear of the cohorts, standing riderless and held by a soldier. Salvius Cursor’s horse. The man was there somewhere on foot.
Fronto began to work through his favourite choice phrases and blistering insults, trying to find something suitably acidic with which to lash his tribune when he found him. And when this was over, if the bloodthirsty runt was still alive, Fronto would deliver an ultimatum to Caesar. Either Salvius was transferred away or Fronto would step down from command of the Eleventh. He simply couldn’t work with the man any more.
His eyes bulged in furious shock as there were several whistle blasts and his cohorts suddenly burst into life, running at full pelt toward the hill.
What was the lunatic doing?
Almost seven hundred men ran across the turf, feet pounding, shields clonking, chain shirts hissing as they thundered toward an empty hill, for the army of Petreius and Afranius was now on the plain, facing Caesar.
He almost fell off Bucephalus in surprise when a small unit of swift, lightly armoured auxiliaries suddenly burst free from undergrowth near the hill, bellowing with rage and running forward to meet Salvius’ cohorts.
Eyes wide and brain clicking things into place, Fronto angled toward the two groups of soldiers. Petreius’ men had put on a good show, assembling like a parade ground formation and slowly descending the hill. They had drawn every eye in Caesar’s camp and, in response, Caesar had called his army together, consolidating them to face the enemy. And it had been one big, glittering distraction, while another swift, small unit made a break for the river to fetch water. Every eye and ear in Caesar’s camp had fallen for it. Except for one man. One man whose need for bloodshed and death was ascendant and paramount. Who could not be relied upon to follow orders. Who had almost come to blows with Fronto. Who had been trying to start a fight since the beginning. But who had not fallen for the ruse.
And now Salvius had got the fight he was looking for. It had been a clever move of Petreius’, and it would fail, only because of Salvius. But there was every chance that this small skirmish might just kick off the full-scale thing on the other side of the hill.
Shit, shit, shit.
Fronto raced for the fight, even as the two units met head-on. There were seven hundred or so legionaries. They were tired. Salvius had had them working for Mamurra since before dawn. And there were perhaps a thousand of the Hispanic swordsmen serving Pompey. But they were thirsty and demoralised. The two forces hit one another at pace and the killing began. Initially the legionaries had the clear upper hand due to their equipment, but within ten heartbeats things began to even up, for the enemy were lithe and swift.
Fronto rode in, drawing his sword.
He hit the rear flank of the enemy infantry and brought his sword down at a wide angle, rolling his wrist so that the blade struck and then sliced along and free rather than jarring or sticking in the wound. The Pompeian soldier was wearing only a white wool tunic with a leather shirt over the top. The blade cut through leather, wool and flesh, incising deep enough to reveal the white of bone. The man fell forward, howling his pain, sword falling from his grip even as Fronto swept his blade up and over the neck of Bucephalus to cut down on his left, severing the tendon in a man’s neck so that his head lolled horribly to the other side.
Hacking and chopping, Fronto pushed into the enemy, careful to try and turn any blade that came near Bucephalus. The big black mount gave a brief whinny of pain as a sword scored a pink line across his rump, but this was a trained cavalry horse, and no such small scratch would stop him.
Another man fell, his face a mashed pulp of horribleness.
Another. A cut to the arm almost taking off the limb.
And another.
Fronto blinked. Salvius was suddenly in front of him. As might be expected of the psychopath, he had waded into the enemy ahead of his men and was busy laying about himself with gladius and pugio, stabbing and tearing, hacking and slashing. He was already so covered in blood and gore that he might be mistaken for some dreadful monster made of opened meat and organs. And he was about to die.
Fronto saw it coming. One of the enemy soldiers Salvius had stabbed through the gut and then turned from to attack another was not dead. In fact, he was clearly not as incapable as the tribune believed. As Salvius thrust and hacked, bellowing curses that would make a gladiator blanche, Fronto watched the wounded soldier he had turned his back upon heft a dagger. He had it raised and positioned. One good downward stroke and it would plunge into Salvius’ neck, ending the tribune’s life mid-battle.
Fronto felt the world slow down.
Salvius Cursor was about to die. The bloodthirsty little bastard would be out of Fronto’s hair forever. But he was a Roman, and a tribune, and one of Fronto’s officers, for all he loathed the man to the core. And there was no denying his effectiveness in the correct situation – to whit: mindless slaughter. Fronto had prided himself always on his sense of honour. His sword came up a little. He could just stop it happening. He could probably reach the man and kill him before that blade entered Salvius’ neck.
And yet his sword, slopped and slick with blood already, was not moving any higher. It was as though his arm had counted up the reasons to let the tribune
live and found them lacking. Fronto couldn’t believe it. Had he willingly chosen to let Salvius die?
His arm moved in response. In that odd slow-motion world, Fronto bit down on his anger at the man and started to move. Honour was too important to sacrifice for convenience.
Yet he was too late. His sword arm had paused, hadn’t it? The delay had cost him precious moments, and he would not stop the blade in time. His bloodied sword was lancing out as the man’s dagger descended, but the dagger would find its target first. Fronto felt horror at himself. His delay had cost the tribune his life!
Fronto’s world spun and tilted. He watched the dagger fall, then stared, shocked, as it fell away. Some freak accident in the press had occurred. One of the native swordsmen had been shoved. He had lost his footing and fallen to one side. His own blade had just caught the dagger man in the side through sheer chance. Salvius turned at the pained cry, his expression one of confusion. He saw the dagger man falling away, blade still raised. Saw Fronto behind him with the gory sword still extended.
Nodded his thanks!
Fronto felt cold. He finished his part in the fight mechanically, cutting and trampling, and as soon as it was over, he left, riding back to Caesar’s main force across the open grass with the most dreadful hollowness opening inside him.
He had consciously decided to let Salvius die. Only for a moment, but that had been enough. The man should by all rights be dead now, and it was Fronto’s fault. And yet some beneficent – or possibly malicious – god had enfolded the man and saved him at the last moment. And somehow, despite everything, Salvius believed it was Fronto who’d saved him.
Sweating cold sweat and shaking uncontrollably, Fronto rode for somewhere – anywhere – where Salvius Cursor wasn’t. If he survived this day, Fronto would get drunker than he had ever been. And he would owe a lifetime of offerings to the gods.
* * *
FIELDS OF MARS Page 37