FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  Even as the new machine stopped moving, already the legionaries were busy replacing the vineae along the agger once more.

  The result was that by the end of that morning, a man could walk in relative safety from his bed right up to touch the wall of Massilia without once having to worry about an arrow. The Massiliots had braved the walls once more in an attempt to destroy the monster, casting down rocks, weapons, fire and then water, anything they could find. But quickly, the damage they had been taking from the Caesarian brick tower made their attempts too perilous, and they desisted. The postern gate opened briefly, but no sally came forth, perhaps on observing the fact that more than a legion of men now waited for them under the vineae, in the tower and beneath the Musculus.

  And there, under that great roof, engineers moved into position and began work on undermining the tower.

  That had been this morning. Fronto had watched it all. Now, while work was undertaken to bring the whole siege to an end at the northern agger, Fronto stood atop the southern one. He could see the tower, the arcade of vineae and the Musculus some way up the slope. He had stopped at the white-washed stones that marked the extreme limit of the enemy’s missiles.

  ‘What the shit is that?’ Aurelius said suddenly, pointing up toward the northern agger. The others turned to look, and blinked. A great timber arm was moving inside the city, approaching the wall top and beginning to protrude.

  ‘That,’ Fronto answered, ‘is a crane. Ahenobarbus is up to something. Come on. I think things are about to become unpleasant.’

  * * *

  By the time they had reached the north agger by a circuitous route that kept them out of the reach of enemy missiles from the walls, the crane was almost in position. Fronto could see the enormous ‘A’ shaped timber frame rising proud of the walls, the cable’s terminus out of sight behind the ramparts. A second crane was being manoeuvred into position next to the first. Massive constructions, there was no chance they had been built at short notice by the men of Ahenobarbus’ garrison. Besides, they were of a decidedly Greek design rather than a neater, more efficient Roman one.

  ‘How did they get those monsters?’ Aurelius breathed as they hurried along the tunnel of vineae on the agger.

  ‘They had them in the port. I remember them a couple of years ago being used to move the stones when the new quay was put in place. They’re for city construction. Could lift a trireme out of the water, too.’

  They watched, breathless, as the first crane began to work, the unseen windlass turning with a creaking audible even outside the walls. The cable started to rise slowly. Fronto and his companions came to a halt at the junction where the agger ended. The brick tower rose next to them, loosing missile after missile harmlessly. The crane was being operated by men safely out of sight behind the walls, its positioning sighted by some unseen fellow at a narrow window in the tower. There were no figures for the archers and artillerists to aim for, so they targeted the timber ‘A’, though attempting to damage a massive industrial crane even with a scorpion bolt was futile.

  Ahead, under the massive Musculus, Fronto could see the men of some unnamed cohort, ready to react to any sortie from the walls. And beyond them, though he couldn’t see it, Mamurra’s engineers were at work, cutting away and levering out the stones at the base of the tower.

  There was an ominous groan and Fronto’s eyes roved nervously. At first he thought it might be the tower ready to come down. Towers groaned when the weight upon damaged foundations became too much for them to bear. But the tower was still solid. The Musculus, perhaps? But no. There was no reason for a groan from that.

  Fronto looked out from beneath the Musculus again, up at the walls, and his eyes widened. The crane’s cable had crested the parapet and its load was now visible. Strapped to the cable was a stone block of the sort from which the port quay was constructed. A block that took a cart to move. A block that weighed more than a cart and its mule together. A block almost as big as him.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘What is it?’ called a lilting voice, and Fronto turned to see Mamurra exiting the brick tower and strolling toward him, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Massive stone blocks. They’re going to drop them on us.’

  The engineer frowned and crossed to the edge of the Musculus, peering up. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes, it’s quite big, isn’t it?’

  ‘That thing would punch through the ground itself when dropped from a height, Marcus,’ Fronto told the engineer.

  ‘Not through this, though.’

  Fronto’s eyes rose once more to the heavy roof above them. ‘I wish I had your confidence.’

  He was not alone. News of the block hovering above them had spread through the cohort and now legionaries were murmuring nervously.

  ‘Have faith, Fronto,’ smiled Mamurra just as a call from the wall top to release came. There was a distant creak, a slithering of rope and then the oppressive silence of something very, very heavy dropping through the open air.

  Fronto prayed to a pantheon of gods.

  The rock struck with a sound like a Titan falling to the ground.

  The Musculus gave a great, convulsive quake. There were a number of noises that Fronto thought sounded a little too much like shearing timbers, and the roof gave an unearthly screech. Fronto stared in astonishment as several pieces of vine and hide scattered from the eaves of the edifice like snow, and then a rock that could crush an ox flat slid off the roof and slammed into the earth where it buried itself into the turf by more than a foot.

  ‘This thing would withstand the sky falling on her,’ Mamurra announced proudly, as half a cohort of legionaries stared variously at the fallen stone and the ceiling where it had struck. Someone let out a long, slow, nervous fart, and several people sniggered and heaped insults upon the guilty backside.

  The rock was not the only one. Over the next hour the two cranes worked repeatedly to lift giant stones to the wall top and then drop them on the Musculus. By the time the third one hit, the men beneath were becoming quite blasé about the whole thing, joking and jostling and jeering at the unseen enemy above. Fronto had to congratulate Mamurra. He’d not have thought it possible. Every time the rocks struck, he winced, expecting the roof to give and men to be crushed flat, yet it remained sturdy and intact.

  Finally, the rocks stopped coming and the soldiers sent up a rousing cheer, hurling insults at the wall top.

  ‘Is it over?’ Masgava muttered.

  ‘Hardly,’ Fronto replied. ‘They’ve paused because they see they’re getting nowhere, but they’ll just be rethinking their strategy.’

  Sure enough, with another quarter hour passed, things began to happen once more. Trebonius had come out to check on the situation and had been lavish with his praise for Mamurra. Salvius Cursor had come too, presumably in the hope that the enemy could sortie and he could bathe in Pompeian blood once more. Fronto tried not to be too near him.

  And then a strange smell began to permeate the air. It was clearly emanating from the city and settled like a cloud on the whole area.

  ‘I know that smell,’ Aurelius said, suspiciously.

  Mamurra nodded. ‘Pitch.’

  ‘And pine resin too,’ added Arcadios. ‘Smells like the wine casks back home.’

  ‘Prepare for fire,’ Mamurra barked at the soldiers. ‘Ready the buckets. Bring up extra water butts and have the poles to hand.’

  More barrels of water were brought forward along the agger, each lifted with poles carried by two men at each side. Buckets were spaced out along the Musculus, and every ten feet a legionary made ready with a seven foot pole with a forked end.

  There was another nervous silence and gradually the smell changed, becoming more pungent and greasy, then cloying and hot. Arrows began to fly once more from the brick tower, trying to stop the men atop the ramparts. Fronto could not see what was happening from his position within the Musculus, and he sure as shit was not going to poke h
is head out and look up right now, but he presumed the Massiliot defenders were raising pitch barrels to the wall top and there lighting them. It would be far too dangerous to ignite them within the city and then try to lift them. So men would be hiding as best they could on the wall top and lighting the lifted barrels there.

  Distant screams suggested they could not hide very effectively from the archers in the brick tower. Still they were managing to succeed in their task, for there was a cheer from above and a moment later a bang on the roof of the Musculus. Fronto could immediately smell the burning pitch and resin, but the barrel, having spilled part of its contents across the roof, rolled clear of the eaves and dropped to the ground, where it cracked further, spilling more of its deadly contents.

  The soldiers recoiled, But men threw buckets of water over it, while others used the long poles to push the barrel away down the slight slope and out into harmless open grass. Two more men paused momentarily to be sure nothing deadly was going to drip from the edge of the roof and then stepped out into the open just long enough to hurl a bucket of water up onto the Musculus roof and then duck back inside. Fronto, grimacing, stepped out to check the damage.

  The roof was intact! The stones had torn bits of the outer covering away, but had done no real damage, and the fire had taken no hold on the materials, fizzling to a sizzling gloop before even the men had added their water to the mix.

  ‘Good work,’ he noted to Mamurra as he ducked back underneath just as a second barrel was ignited above. He gestured to the structure around them.

  ‘I’ve been toying with ideas as to how to protect a vinea from above,’ Mamurra smiled, ‘though combining all my theories into one cover was new, I have to admit. I’m confident that it’ll stand against anything they can throw.’

  As if to punctuate his words, another barrel of burning pitch struck. Once again, the legionaries quickly extinguished the flames and pushed the wreckage carefully away.

  Fronto remained in the safety of the Musculus for a short while longer, listening to the barrels landing on the roof, and then decided to achieve a better viewpoint. With his friends in tow, he entered the brick tower and climbed to the highest level, where he could see over the parapet of the Massiliot walls and right down to the roof of the Musculus, scarred and stained, yet intact.

  With a nod of satisfaction that all was secure, despite his initial fears, Fronto turned to descend the tower once more when he stopped, suddenly alert.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘Hear what?’ Galronus replied. But then they all heard it. A deep groaning noise, like the stirring of giants beneath the earth, accompanied by a vibration than made his teeth ache.

  ‘What, in the name of…’ Aurelius’ voice trailed into silence.

  Fronto rushed over to the northern side, pushing between two archers, and peered down. Though the men within the Musculus were almost entirely hidden beneath its great roof, he could make out the signs of men fleeing. A quick glance back toward the camp, and he could see legionaries pouring from the end of the vinea tunnel. Shouts of alarm below and a voice of command he thought must be Mamurra.

  The Massiliot tower cracked.

  Above where the engineers were removing blocks, there was a strange and terrifying noise of tearing stones, and a crack ran right the way up from beneath the Musculus to the tower’s parapet. There were cries of alarm in both Greek and Latin, and the tower shuddered. Fronto stared. He had seen the results of undermining a few times in his life, but it never failed to impress him, and these were some of the strongest walls he had yet faced.

  The front of the tower began to separate from the rear, the crack widening into a gaping hole that widened the closer it came to the top. Once again there was a sound like a rock-face being torn in two, and the upper two thirds of the tower strained slowly outwards, swaying with unstoppable slowness, ponderously leaning. For a moment Fronto wondered whether Mamurra had planned this all badly, for his Musculus seemed in direct line and even the siege beast he had created must surely be crushed by the weight of a collapsing tower. The fleeing legionaries certainly seemed to believe so.

  But the old bugger knew what he was about. He had set his engineers to removing the stones from the north-east angle, especially the northern side, close to the wall. Just when it looked as though a large portion of the tower must fall straight on the Musculus, it swayed off toward the other side, leaning out almost parallel with the wall.

  It fell.

  It was not the whole tower, but probably a third of it, tumbling out and crashing down to the turf. Large fragments of it smashed loose and bounced off the Musculus roof, doing no more damage than had the blocks the Massiliots had dropped previously.

  Fronto stared into the cloud of dust, waiting for the haze to clear. Gradually it did so, and he took in what had happened to the walls of Massilia. The tower’s inner side remained intact to full height. It’s outer face was solid up to perhaps twice the height of a man, and then opened up so that the attackers could see the remains of the interior rooms. Even as Fronto watched, he could see cracks still opening across the rest of it, and mortar trickling out from between stones. Even Fronto, with not a jot of engineering skill to his name, could see that it would not take a great deal more work to bring down the rest of the tower. Another day or two at most and they would have a breach in the wall wide enough to send in a cohort at a time.

  They had done it. In fairness, Mamurra had done it.

  In the silence, accompanied only by odd groans of settling rubble, a cheer rose from the legions back across the agger. Men once more rushed forward into their positions, desperate to take advantage of the damage. The engineers hurried to work on the stones, ready to bring the rest of the tower down and open the way into Massilia.

  ‘Look,’ called Galronus, and Fronto’s gaze rose and focused where his friend was pointing.

  His heart thumped. The gates along the wall had creaked open and a small group of figures had emerged. A man in officer’s uniform on a horse, walking it at a sedate pace, accompanied by men in Greek garb – nobles and politicians.

  ‘Come on.’

  Hurrying, Fronto led his friends down the tower stairs and then jogged back along the agger, desirous of being present when the city capitulated, which now seemed inevitable.

  * * *

  Fronto sat astride Bucephalus, heaving breaths and trying not to look exhausted, though his cheeks were clearly flushed from hurrying across the siege works and the camp. Fortunately, he’d had time, as Trebonius had delayed, making sure he was fully attired in gleaming armour with his general’s ribbon knotted around his middle.

  Then, he and the other officers rode out to meet the city’s embassy.

  Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus’ only concession to defeat was that he rode out to parley with no weapons at his side. The members of the Massilia boule were in their rich himations with decorative cloth fillets bound around their hairlines. A man who had to be the commander of the city’s native guard was in old-fashioned Greek armour, again with no weapons. But Ahenobarbus was no fool. A century of archers waited behind them at maximum range, ready to move to support their commander. Fronto eyed the enemy commander warily. Ahenobarbus had already held two towns against them and there was something about him that appeared still defiant.

  The Massiliots to a man looked beaten and dejected. Their expressions were hopeless.

  Ahenobarbus looked…

  Fronto couldn’t tell. He’d never seen a man with so little expression. He was a mask untouched by emotion. Fronto would hate to play dice against him.

  Trebonius led them all forward and came to a halt some twenty paces from his opposite number. Ahenobarbus inclined his head, barely enough to offer respect, and Trebonius followed suit. Silence reigned. The legions had been temporarily withdrawn from the siege works, leaving just a guard at the tower and Musculus.

  ‘You are willing to capitulate?’ Trebonius said finally. ‘To open Massilia to us and disarm you
r men?’

  Ahenobarbus took some time to reply. Fronto could see a tiny tic at work below the man’s left eye.

  ‘I have terms to offer.’

  Trebonius frowned. ‘It is understood generally in warfare that the victor sets the terms.’

  ‘You are not the victor yet,’ Ahenobarbus growled. ‘And unless you wish to spend the next two months watching your men suffer as they attempt to control Massilia street by street and house by house, you will curb your arrogance and hear my terms.’

  Fronto saw Ahenobarbus straighten a little. He was getting angry.

  The Massiliot nobleman closest to Ahenobarbus stepped to his side and murmured something too quiet to hear clearly. Ahenobarbus did not look happy at the words, but he nodded.

  ‘I believe that you were left by your populist master with instructions not to destroy Massilia, but to capture it. Equally, the civilian masters of the town would prefer a peaceful end. However, I know little to nothing of you Gaius Trebonius, other than your record of war successes in Gaul. Given the wholesale destruction and widespread death of almost everyone the proconsul met in his campaigns, the Massiliots worry that similar fates lie ahead for them, regardless of Caesar’s orders, and we cannot be certain that you can prevent your legions from running riot in the city.’

  With every pronouncement of Trebonius’ untrustworthiness and potential violence, the Caesarian commander was becoming angrier, trembling and barely restraining his temper.

  ‘However,’ Ahenobarbus went on, ‘Caesar has forged a solid reputation as a merciful victor and a man of his word, and it is well known that he can control his legions like few other commanders. I propose a truce – no aggression to be committed by either force until your general arrives in Massilia. When Caesar stands before these gates, the city will agree terms with him and open to the proconsul. These are not my wishes, you understand, but even as senior of Pompey’s officers here, I am forced to bow to the demands of the independent city.’