FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘What’s faster than ramming speed?’ he shouted to the trierarch.

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing faster than ramming speed.’

  ‘Then you need to invent it. Hold the straight course as fast as we can go. Don’t deviate unless I shout.’

  ‘Sir, we can’t ram two ships.’

  ‘Just sail. And fast.’

  The trierarch’s eyes were wild as he saluted. Brutus heard the aulete playing his fastest tune, then trying desperately to speed up even that. The men at the oars gasped in disbelief and effort as they bent to a pace that no ship’s crew could maintain for more than a few heartbeats.

  ‘Row, men,’ Brutus shouted. ‘It’s row or die. But be ready. I’m going to give the command to ship oars shortly, and then to row once more. You have to be fast.’

  They bore down on the two ships that were coming at them from oblique angles ahead-left and ahead-right. They had just cleared the second row of Massiliot ships. There was nowhere to go but straight between the two ships. And there almost certainly wasn’t adequate time to do it.

  ‘They’re going to hole us from both sides at once, sir,’ shouted one of the senior crew nearby where he clutched his sail-rope and stared, terrified, at the ships converging on them.

  ‘Maybe,’ admitted Brutus. ‘But maybe not.’

  Neptune, Zephyrus, Mercury and Fortuna, he said silently, I will devote an altar to each of you if you see us through this, and I’ll build a bloody temple over the top with my own money.

  The Superbia shot forward like an arrow from Neptune’s own bow, carving a path through the waves the likes of which had never been seen. Brutus wanted to shout encouragement to his men, but found his voice silent, his throat dry, his skin prickling and ice cold.

  The two triremes closed at a frightening pace. The Superbia was aimed slightly toward the one on the left. Brutus could now clearly see the crew of that ship preparing for a head-on collision. The other ship was preparing archers and artillery, expecting to hit the Superbia amidships.

  Five.

  ‘Two points to starboard,’ yelled Brutus.

  Four.

  The Caesarian flagship turned very slightly, aiming now directly between the enemy vessels.

  Three.

  There were cries rising from both Massiliot ships now, a strange mix of triumphant euphoria and desperate panic. Some of them believed they were about to drive home the critical victory of the fight while others were seeing disaster looming. Entirely understandable, thought Brutus, since he felt much the same. It was all on a throw of the divine dice now.

  Two.

  ‘Ship oars!’

  One.

  Every oar aboard the Superbia rose within the ship, standing vertical.

  Brutus closed his eyes as his vessel slipped between the two who were converging on it. He heard a number of dreadful noises and cries and, a moment later, opened them to see open blue water ahead. He had never sweated this much.

  ‘Row, you bastards,’ he shouted, exhilaration filling him. As the oars were run out to each side and the musician began his tune once more, Brutus turned and looked along the length of the ship across the stern.

  The enemy vessels never stood a chance. They had gambled all on pinning Brutus with their rams, just as he had gambled all on the speed of his men. While the Superbia shot free like a bolt from a scorpion, the two Massiliot ships collided. Oars splintered and sheared, killing their rowers in droves. Neither was at enough of a side angle for the bronze beaks to tear open their hulls, but the metal rams caught, one being torn from the ship entirely, leaving a gaping hole at the prow. Both ships ground to a halt, scraping alongside, tearing timbers from each other and wrecking their hulls. Brutus heard a fatal cracking noise from one, and immediately its stern rose slightly in the water. Its spine had cracked. The two ships were mangled and tied together by their mutual wreckage.

  They had done it.

  Now they only had to win a battle against incredible odds.

  * * *

  The Superbia turned ponderously. The men, exhausted from their incredible labours, responded to a much lesser pace from the aulete, relying more on the sails to come about than the oars. Brutus was impatient to rejoin the fight, but he also knew it was a lot to ask of his men, taking into account what they had already given and what they had just been through.

  Ahead, two more of Brutus’ ships had pressed through the Massiliot fleet and were bearing down on the two damaged vessels to finish them off. Beyond that, the battle was hard fought.

  ‘Bring us back into the action,’ Brutus shouted to the trierarch, who simply nodded and distributed the commands. The flagship gradually righted and began to make once more for the Massiliot lines. Selecting one of the strongest looking of the enemy ships out on the flank, Brutus gestured toward it.

  ‘That one. Ram it if you can.’

  ‘Sir, that’s dangerously close to the Pompeian fleet.’

  Brutus nodded but waved the argument aside. It was. But that was part of it. The new ships – they had to be led by Nasidius, else they would surely have joined in by now – were still sitting silent and still, observing the as-yet inconclusive battle happening off their bows. If they were going to be swayed to attack by Brutus’ own successes, he felt sure they would have done so by now. And if his victories were not pushing Nasidius into joining the fight, then perhaps…

  The large Massiliot trireme on the flank was far from oblivious to the danger. Spotting the Superbia bearing down on their rear at increasing speed, they immediately began to move. Hemmed in to fore and starboard by their friends, they began to turn to port, toward the fleet of Nasidius. As their oars began to roll and dip and the ship picked up speed, the trierarch behind Brutus shouted for any change in orders.

  ‘Make for where they were, but be prepared for last moment changes,’ Brutus replied.

  Familiar with his admiral’s strange and uninformative style of command, the ship’s trierarch nodded.

  Brutus watched as they bore down on the position of the departing trireme. The fleeing ship was now making for the relative safety of the Pompeian galleys, while the vessel beyond was already locked in combat with another of Brutus’ ships. Currently the battle against the Massiliots could still swing either way. The enemy had more vessels, even after the destruction Brutus had already wrought. And the Caesarian crews might be more tired, but they were better and stronger.

  Time to change the odds to the tune of one…

  ‘Ready…’

  He watched the lines of warring Massiliot vessels as they closed, and marked off distances in his head. There was no point in attacking the vessel ahead, for they were busy with another Caesarian ship. Besides, the two were tied together with grapples and ropes and sinking them might just take an allied ship to the sea bed as collateral. And the ship to the left was even now picking up speed as it fled for the Pompeians.

  ‘Three… two… one… hard to starboard!’

  This time, the trierarch had anticipated the move. As the helmsman hauled on his steering oars, the commander bellowed ‘ship oars!’

  The Superbia veered suddenly to the right.

  The crew of a liburnian that had been decked out and filled with archers suddenly burst into desperate activity, shouting warnings and panicking. Men who could see what was coming threw themselves into the water at the far side and began to swim as fast as they could, buffeted by the waves.

  The Superbia hit the liburnian at tremendous speed, even having shipped their oars.

  The bronze beak at the prow of the ship tore into the side of the enemy vessel just below the waterline. The bronze plates that had been attached to the prow from there up slammed into the timbers, cracking and splintering strakes, snapping oars as though they were toothpicks, killing oarsmen by the dozen.

  Every man on the Superbia’s deck was thrown forward with the collision. A few, like Brutus and the helmsman, maintained their grip on the timbers and staggered in place. Many fell to the
deck. The enemy ship lurched, driven sideways through the water by the power of the collision, and rocked dangerously. Men screamed and fell into the water or were thrown around like a child’s doll.

  Even over the clamour and din of death and destruction, Brutus could hear the fatal sound of water gushing in through a holed hull. The liburnian was doomed, taking on water at sickening speed.

  The Superbia’s trierarch called out his orders and a dozen sailors rushed to the front, two men to an oar, lowering the great timber poles and using them to push against the ruined liburnian’s hull. At the same time, the flagship’s oars were run out and the crew began to backwater, extricating themselves from the sinking ship.

  Brutus straightened as they came free and began to retreat into open water. The liburnian was listing badly now as the hull filled with ever more water. Those men below deck would be fighting the terrible force of the sea rushing into the space, while those atop the deck were throwing themselves out into the waves and desperately trying to swim clear.

  The hole they had made was enormous, especially in comparison to the small hull of the liburnian and, with a tremendous crash, the broken ship slammed down sideways onto the surface, the mast snapping like a twig, and began to slowly disappear beneath the waves. The lucky men who had managed to swim clear might get picked up by any ship not currently involved in a fight, or they might continue to swim away from the battle. Good luck to them. They would have to swim half a mile against the sea’s currents and waves to reach shore. Most would die before they even cleared the last fighting ship. Perhaps the ones who hadn’t made it clear were the lucky ones, for as the liburnian finally disappeared under the water, the vacuum it created pulled a number of men after it into the depths, where they at least would drown quickly, rather than sinking under the surface after an exhausting quarter of a mile of fighting the waves.

  Brutus hardened his heart. No man could fight a battle if he allowed his conscience to rule him.

  There were distant calls and, along with every face on the ship, Brutus turned in response. Orders were being given throughout the Pompeian fleet.

  The men of Brutus’ ships held their breath.

  The first great Pompeian trireme moved. It turned, slowly, ponderously, and began to sail away to the south. Another followed, and then another. The flagship – the Argo – went with them, bearing Nasidius away from the battle. Within moments, the entire Pompeian fleet of sixteen ships was sailing away, and the Massiliot who had fled toward them was tagging along with them desperately.

  Brutus could almost taste the wave of dismay that washed over the remaining Massiliots. They had been abandoned by their saviours, and the same fleet under the same man who had crushed them a month ago outside the harbour of Massilia was doing exactly the same again further along the coast.

  They had won. Brutus knew it. The fighting wasn’t over yet, but the battle was won. In addition to the Pompeian fleet sailing away and putting ever more distance between them and the Caesarians with every heartbeat, he could see how everything had changed with the knowledge that the enemy had been abandoned. The two Massiliot ships that had collided were even now disappearing beneath the water while Brutus’ vessels that had gone to finish them off were selecting new targets from among the enemy fleet. The liburnian was gone from sight, and two more ships of the Massiliot fleet were sinking, just masts and beaks jutting from the waves, sails bobbing loose on the water while men tried to climb onto them to save themselves. Other Massiliot ships were damaged or broken beyond repair, including the green-sailed merchant Brutus had hit first. Others were ruined. Two alone of all the Caesarian ships had suffered severe damage, but at a quick glance it looked likely that both could be saved with speedy work.

  The enemy were running, now.

  Brutus watched any free Massiliot ship turning and racing away. They simply could not get past the fight and the remaining ships of Brutus to follow Nasidius wherever he was going, so they turned tail and sailed away north around the headland, making for Massilia and home.

  He let them go. Their return to the besieged city would add little strength to the place, and their tidings of defeat and abandonment would further damage the morale of the defenders.

  Even as those ships disappeared from sight around the rocks, Brutus counted. One Massiliot escaped with the Pompeian fleet. Five sunk. Four currently tied to his own vessels with ropes and grapples, and which were now surrendering, realising they were lost. He had captured four more. Five, if he wanted the ruined trader he’d first hit. No. He would save the men from it and sink the thing. It was of no value. Even if one of his own damaged ships could not be saved, he had come into battle against three to one odds with eighteen ships under his command. Within the hour, he would be sailing back to the island base with twenty one ships and a stunning victory.

  Was it possible to enjoy a triumph in a ship instead of a chariot, he wondered?

  ‘Signal any free ships and tell them to return to port and harry the enemy as they go. I want those bastards running for their lives all the way to Massilia and panicking the populace when they get there.’

  For the first time that morning, the trierarch of the Superbia grinned at him as he saluted.

  Chapter Eighteen

  26th of Sextilis – Massilia

  Fronto crested the hill and his heart sank. He had lived much of his young life in the villa at Puteoli, or in the town house at Rome. And he had spent many of his adult years stomping around one muddy fortress or another. In fact, he’d only spent a relatively short time in his estate at Massilia. But they had been some of the most important years of his life. They had been the years with Lucilia. With the twins. With his family. He hadn’t realised quite how much he’d grown comfortable with the place until now, when he knew he would never be comfortable there again.

  The carefully tended gardens were gone. Instead, the villa – and Balbus’ too – were bedecked with various Roman military flags and banners, and the grounds were filled with hastily constructed timber buildings to house the many officers and civilians who were part of the necessary process of the siege. The paddock and the orchard were gone, making way for construction sites and work camps. The entire place had become a sea of mud and wholesale destruction, swarmed across by an ant-like army in silver and red.

  Was this what it was like for the barbarian when Rome came calling?

  It was clear in an instant that Massilia was no longer a home to him, and would almost certainly never be again. Of course, now he had Caesar’s help, once the forces of Pompey had been subdued, he would have the Rome and Puteoli property again, as well as various other rural and urban estates.

  And there was always Tarraco.

  Leaving Ilerda, Fronto had made straight for the provincial capital and the seaside villa a few miles up the coast. He had, naturally, been worried that the effects of the war in Hispania might have reached the villa, but had been relieved to find all in good order. The family had been happy and comfortable. He had berated them for sending no word during all that time in Ilerda and immediately regretted it. Balbus had sent him two letters from the family, but between rebels and bandits and the endless troubles with the supply chain, they had simply never arrived. Had Fronto sent them a letter? Well, no, he had to admit.

  But the fact remained that all were well. Fronto was welcomed home with open arms. Salvius Cursor had been greeted with politeness and had been the very soul of courtesy, which did little to help assuage the guilt that flowed through Fronto every time he looked at the man. Mamurra had been treated as an honoured guest. They had tarried at the villa for several days. Fronto kept finding excuses whenever Mamurra expressed the need to move on, but in truth it was simply that he was relishing peaceful time with his family. On the third day Titus Pullo, the senior centurion of the cohort accompanying them, came calling. The interim governor was beginning to make difficult noises about playing host to the visiting force at his expense while their officers ‘lounged about at the sea
side.’ Fronto sent back a terse message, telling the man they would move on when they were ready.

  It had been a good decision, in the end, to delay, for on the fourth day there came a knock at the villa door and, when opened, the figure of Galronus stood grinning in the doorway. The Remi had petitioned Caesar to join them, given the political nature of Caesar’s coming duties and the lack of a role for active cavalry. He had been granted his petition, on the condition of carrying out various minor tasks and delivering a few messages for the proconsul.

  In the end it had not been Mamurra, or Salvius, or even the encamped cohort, that had pushed Fronto into moving on. It had been his father-in-law. Balbus remained edgy over the existence of a number of dangerous letters that remained in Massilia and the lack of word from Catháin. They had left Tarraco and the villa on the tenth of the month, with a tearful Lucilia and two miserable looking boys watching them from the threshold. Fronto tried not to be disappointed when the twins waved at Salvius. He had caught the tribune more than once playing with them, teaching them sword moves with a stick from the garden. He had itched to tell the man to leave his family alone, but there was no reason other than his personal feelings, so he could hardly justify such a demand.

  Fronto had argued on that last night that his family still needed protection. The war was far from over yet. But Masgava had been immovable. He was coming with Fronto, as were Arcadios and Aurelius. The villa had a full complement of capable staff who could look after the family. But Masgava was adamant that Fronto could not look after himself.