FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  Brutus leaned on the bow, his nerves jangling as he watched ships that had only a moment before been moving in perfect unison and at a uniform distance suddenly closing on one another dangerously. The sudden proximity forced others to veer slightly, in order to avoid a clash of oars that might prove disastrous to both. It was hazardous in tight formation to rely on both wind and muscle, but he could not let the enemy fleet get away.

  They were running, and if they were running then there was a good reason. In all likelihood the ships carried something important, and the most important thing to the defending garrison was Domitius Ahenobarbus. It was hard to avoid a tiny thrill at the notion of catching the enemy commander at sea and putting an end to his defiance.

  The Caesarian fleet was closing. The Massiliots were almost at the headland the locals called the Chair of Lug. Beyond that was the second, southernmost headland, Lu’s Cross, and as soon as they rounded that one, it would all come down to whatever speed they could coax out of oar or canvas. Brutus’ fleet was bearing down on the enemy at an oblique angle, making for the same turn. Each oar stroke brought them closer, and Brutus could see even now that it would not be enough to head them off, but they would be so close.

  Every moment they were a little nearer. He could see the ships now, could see how many of the merchants and fishers that had been added to the fleet were near ruinous, but had been patched up with emergency measures and made sailable, if barely so. Why? Had Ahenobarbus put all his good Roman personnel on board and fled, leaving the city in the hands of the natives?

  Simultaneously cursing and throwing pleas to Neptune and Mercury to close the gap, Brutus remained at the bow rail, watching his ships coming dangerously close to one another in a desperate attempt to catch the fleeing Massiliots.

  As the first of the enemy ships rounded the high, white, rocky headland, Brutus clenched his teeth. His lead ships were gaining, but his own fleet had become of necessity somewhat spread out in an attempt to avoid collisions. The enemy were becoming similarly strung out, with two of the small, leaky native vessels being gradually left behind.

  The two fleets rounded Lug’s Chair and ploughed on south for the next main headland – Lug’s Cross – which signified the point that the coastline turned east. The two small fishing vessels with the recently-fixed strakes and patched sails, which were clearly unable to keep up with the bulk of the Massiliot fleet, turned and made for a bay with a pleasant-looking sandy beach. Above the cove stood a small native village of the Albici where any fleeing native would find aid and shelter.

  ‘Sir?’ called the trierarch, gesturing to the two small boats.

  ‘Forget them and stay on the fleet. All ships. Pass the word.’

  There was a small amount of risk in that. Briefly, Brutus considered the possibility that Ahenobarbus had been clever and played the greatest of tricks, using his whole fleet as a decoy so that he could safely leave Massilia and put to shore just down the coast. But Brutus didn’t think so. The man was clearly too arrogant for such a base ruse. Besides, he couldn’t have known for certain that Brutus wouldn’t send vessels in pursuit of the pair. He almost had.

  ‘How far is Lug’s Cross?’ he shouted to the trierarch.

  ‘From here about four miles, sir.’

  Brutus fretted as he tried to judge the relative speeds. His fleet were gaining. It was fractional, but he was sure they were gaining. If so, they could afford to maintain the chase. If not he would have to try something new and dangerous… if he could think of anything, that was.

  Chewing on his cheek, he held up his hand and put his thumb between his eye and the largest of the enemy ships at arm’s length. Too big. He cycled through his other fingers until the fourth one matched perfectly the size of that ship. He then stood, silent, thoughtful, with his arm raised and that finger between him and the ship, one eye closed and squinting.

  The deck beneath him thrummed with oar strokes, dipped and rose with the waves, yet he stood still, one hand on the rail for steadiness and the other raised. As they moved interminably forward and the jagged landscape south and east of Massilia slid by, gradually he saw the black of the enemy hull around his finger. Proof. They were getting closer, no matter how marginally so.

  ‘We’re gaining,’ he shouted.

  ‘But at this rate, sir, they might be in Greece with Pompey before we get there.’

  Brutus ignored the comment and watched as the two fleets raced on, making for that high bluff that would signify the turning east. At that point they would be moving outside Massilia’s sphere of influence and making toward Tauroentum along the coast, a small port town that happened to host one of Caesar’s supply depots.

  Gradually, the land slid by, each rock and cove marking perhaps a quarter of a mile along the chase. Then, faster than he had anticipated, the jagged bluffs of Lug’s Cross were approaching. The Massiliot ships raced past beneath them and began to make preparations to turn, sails being shifted into the running position. Lug’s Cross consisted not just of a rocky outcropping, but also of a barren, grey, craggy island separated from the mainland by a channel just fifty paces across.

  Reaching the outer edge of the island, the first Massiliot ship turned and slid out of sight. Behind it, more and more ships did the same. Brutus eyed the narrow channel, just for a moment wondering whether a trireme with oars shipped might slip through it. Casting the idea aside as madness, he concentrated ahead. The Superbia had gradually moved toward the front of the fleet. Not quite the lead vessel, but among the front runners.

  He watched ship after ship disappear around the rocky isle of Lug’s Cross, and prayed as hard as he’d ever prayed that they would catch the enemy at the far side.

  Three enemy ships.

  Two.

  One.

  The last of the Massiliot fleet vanished around the outcropping, and the lead vessels of Brutus’ fleet were but a whisper behind them. The first two ships of the fleet – the Celeris and the Demeter – turned the corner of the isle, their sails mimicking the enemy in their configuration as sailors hauled on ropes to take advantage of the strong wind.

  Brutus clenched his teeth, spray rising in a fine mist around him, the dangerous rocks of Lug’s Cross looming over the port bow, his knuckles clenched white on the rail.

  The Superbia rounded the headland.

  Brutus’ breath caught in his throat.

  This was no flight from Massilia at desperate speed. The defenders had lured him – lured his ships. In the wide sea beyond the point, a massive fleet awaited. Already those Massiliots who had been first around the headland were turning and forming up on the flank of a force of fresh Roman warships flying the eagle and lightning flag of Pompey.

  Brutus ran a quick count in his head but quickly lost track. Of the newly-arrived Romans there were sixteen – all strong, veteran military vessels. Of the Massiliots, in excess of thirty. More than double Brutus’ numbers, at least.

  ‘Admiral?’ shouted the trierarch.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The order to turn back, sir. While we can.’

  Brutus’ eyes narrowed as he peered at the enemy. There was a chance, depending on who these new arrivals were. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Sound the order for full speed.’

  * * *

  The Caesarian fleet bore down on their enemy at speed, each ship now piping and hammering a pace like the pulse of a racing horse, oars ripping through the water like lion’s claws, sails full and rounded, throwing them east.

  The Massiliots were still trying to form themselves up. There was a certain feeling of panic about their sudden movements, while the newly-arrived Pompeian fleet sat in formation to one side. There was no homogeneity to the force arrayed before them. Had Brutus planned something like this, the two fleets would now be working in concert to destroy the Caesarians. In fact, the Pompeians sat with their oars still, very much separate from the Massiliot force that was turning desperately to face their pursuers.

  ‘Sir, we can�
��t take on that many ships,’ the trierarch said in a hiss, having come forward urgently.

  ‘Yes we can.’

  ‘It’s madness, sir.’

  ‘Perhaps. But calculated madness. Look at the enemy closely.’

  ‘Admiral?’

  ‘What we face are two separate fleets. The new arrivals are not forming up with our friends. I think we’re looking at two different strategies here. The Massiliots think they’re leading us into a trap and that the Roman fleet are here to leap on us. And I think they expected us to flee at the sight. See how they panic and how desperately – and badly – they turn? And the Pompeian ships are not moving to take us. I think they expect the Massiliots to do the work. They are here to support and mop up. That ship is the Argo.’

  He pointed to what appeared to be the Roman flagship. ‘The Argo is the favoured vessel of Quintus Nasidius. I’ve met Nasidius and talked to him. He’s a good sailor and a capable strategist, but he’s a cautious man. Not one to force an action unless he’s certain. I don’t think he trusts the Massiliots. Possible not Ahenobarbus either.’

  ‘You don’t think he’ll attack us?’

  Brutus shook his head. ‘He will, but only if he thinks it will be an easy win. Until then he will happily let the Massiliots weaken us.’

  ‘And they will. They alone outnumber us two to one.’

  ‘Maybe, but they’re scared, tired, disordered and didn’t expect us to keep going. Have the orders passed around the fleet. No one is to make for Nasidius’ ships and I don’t want a single arrow sent their way. We leave them out of this entirely for as long as possible. Concentrate on the Massiliot vessels.’

  The trierarch, still clearly less than convinced, saluted and ran off to the aft once more.

  The Demeter, slightly ahead and to the right, responded well to the relayed orders. He had been making for the largest of the opposition, which was clearly the Argo, but immediately veered off to port once more, selecting as a new target one of the largest ships of the Massiliot fleet. The Celeris tacked across the front of Brutus’ flagship, moving to the shoreward side to join in taking on the ramshackle fleet of the besieged city.

  Brutus turned. The rest of his ships were spreading out, all of them now in sight, with the last rounding the headland, all heeding their orders and manoeuvring toward the left to take on their erstwhile enemies rather than the new Roman fleet. The rear vessels were even now moving to ramming speed in an effort to close the gap.

  The Superbia was making for one of the larger triremes in the enemy fleet but Brutus, eyes still narrowed into the salty spray, waved an arm at the trierarch. ‘Come to port a little. Make for the rounded trader with the green sail.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Just do it. Ramming speed. Ship oars on approach and at the very last moment bring us to the right, alongside. Archers prepare to loose when you’re close enough to see them pissing themselves.’

  Uncomprehending, the ship’s captain and crew did as ordered, shifting their focus from the big warship to the smaller trader. It was a gamble, but a good one. The sort Brutus liked, because it was gambling not on events controlled by luck or nature, but on the spirits and cunning of men, and Brutus knew how to read an enemy.

  It might help a little to take out one of the biggest enemy vessels first, but there would be a good chance they would be bogged down in close fighting then, no one would see what happened, and nothing would change. But with the trader…

  The smaller vessel was slightly separated from the others. It was of very poor quality and had recently been badly repaired for this journey. Yet despite this, it had been decked out well above the rowers and housed two heavy bolt throwers of the sort that could deliver a critical blow to a ship’s hull. Sometimes it was better to make a big show than to be quietly effective.

  The Superbia bore down on the fishing vessel. Brutus could picture the captain’s face. It would be a mask of panic, wondering what madman was bothering with him when there were bigger ships to take out.

  The flagship tore ahead, every oarsman groaning with effort as it raced through the waves at ramming speed.

  By now, he reckoned, the merchant captain was shitting himself, wondering how to get out of the way. He would be looking left and right, but the Massiliot fleet had lined up to face their pursuers, and he was neatly tucked between two larger vessels. Given the opportunity, he might have been able to move backwards, but there were other ships in the way there too. And forward was just into yet more danger, of course.

  There was a barely-audible thud. The captain had at least decided on a useful plan of action. A heavy iron bolt from the artillery on board shot through the air and vanished beneath the waves some twenty paces in front of the Superbia. They would have time for one more shot, maybe two if they got both artillery pieces ready, and then it would be too late. He would have to hope this one wasn’t a fluke and that they were just bad at range-finding in general.

  ‘Ready?’

  Thirty paces.

  Twenty five.

  Another shot. Efficient attempt, speedy loading. Bad aim. The second bolt missed the Superbia entirely by the height of a man, plunging off between the dipping oars and into the water.

  Twenty paces.

  There were now audible shouts of alarm from the merchant crew.

  Fifteen paces.

  Nothing was going to stop the collision now, at least in the minds of the trader’s crew. Their ship was a rickety hulk that had been sitting in port pretty much derelict and had been hastily nailed and caulked and pitched back together, decked out and filled with a nervous crew. What they were facing in Brutus’ command ship was a huge, strong military trireme in fully working order, commanded and crewed by hardened, enthusiastic warriors and bearing a bronze beak on the prow designed to tear through a ship’s hull like a pilum through a summer tunic. The Superbia would rip through the trader and scatter its timbers and crew across the waves.

  Ten paces.

  But that would also tie down Brutus’ flagship.

  ‘Now.’

  The Superbia suddenly dipped to the right and Brutus’ knuckles strained to hold him at the rail as every oar on the ship rose sharply from the water and disappeared into the ship. The wind in the sails was enough to maintain the blood-chilling momentum of the Superbia and, with the talented helmsman at the rear steering oars, the ship immediately lurched left slightly again.

  Five paces.

  Brutus braced and dropped below rail level and every archer and marine did the same. Splinters could kill on board ship.

  The Superbia soared alongside the small trader, their hulls mere feet apart, screams of panic on board the other ship. The great trireme smashed through the trader’s oars like kindling, shards and pieces of jagged timber whirring through the air. Better still, because of the spacing of the ships, at the far side, Brutus could see a similar thing happening with an enemy warship. The Massiliot trireme had assumed Brutus was going to ram the trader and so had not shipped oars. Consequently, the Superbia was shearing the blades from their oars too as it ran between the ships.

  Even as the archers risked the hell of flying splinters to rise and release their arrows, Brutus could see through the rail the dreadful effect of sailing through a line of oars. Every pole they had hit had been pivoted back at speed within the ship, crushing and smashing the men trying to row. Ribcages were flattened, men broken in two. Screams and blood flowed. It was horrifying.

  The arrows finished the job. On his own authority the archers’ commander had split his forces to face both sides. Arrows raked the merchant ship and the more distant trireme at once.

  Brutus could almost feel the enthusiasm among the Massiliots melting away.

  And suddenly they were out from between the ships and into the very heart of the Massiliot fleet. Behind them, dismay filled the air. The trader was little more than a blood-soaked dead hulk, most of its crew crushed or pinned with arrows, its sails torn and port side oars smashed. It drifted fo
rward, out of the fight entirely. The parallel trireme had similar problems, having lost its starboard oars and suffered a cloud of arrows. It wheeled slightly as its trierarch and crew tried to regain control.

  Battle had now been joined fully.

  Brutus glanced back to see enemy ships engaged with his own fleet. Grapples flew through the air, trailing ropes, and found purchase, hauling ships close enough for their soldiers to cross and begin the wholesale violence for which they were trained. Arrow clouds formed above individual fights. Most of the grapples were from Caesarian ships, but Brutus knew with a lump in his throat that most of the arrows had been loosed from Massiliot ships. They were filled with the Albici, the majority of whom were competent archers.

  Still, despite the fact that the Massiliots outnumbered them and were fighting back with strength and the courage born of those who know they have no other chance, he could see that his own fleet were gaining the upper hand.

  ‘Admiral?’

  He turned again at the shout and saw the helmsman pointing wildly ahead.

  The Superbia had carried through the front rank of Massiliot ships and even now was passing through a second. This line, however, was wider spaced, and there was plenty of room for the Superbia to pass between vessels. His archers were loosing at longer range now, landing arrows on the ships to either side, and it had been Brutus’ intention to burst from the rear of the enemy fleet and slew round with as much speed as they could muster to come up behind the remaining Massiliots.

  His plans had just changed.

  Two triremes, each a good sized and strong Massiliot ship, were bearing down on him. They had been the first two ships to pass the headland and had moved into position, forming the rear of the enemy fleet. And now they were coming for the Superbia.

  ‘What do we do, admiral?’ shouted the trierarch.

  Brutus, his heart in his throat, looked left and right and quickly over his shoulder. They were distinctly short on options. Astern, the ruination of the trader and the destroyed oars of the trireme had caused them to drift closer together, blocking any hope of back-watering and extricating themselves, the way they had come. And the ships of the second line, though they were wider spaced, were still close enough to prevent the Superbia from veering left or right. Ahead lay the two vessels converging on him. The two fastest and most powerful ships in the Massiliot fleet, each with artillery and with bronze beaks of their own. They were trapped.