FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  A cry of alarm from the tower drew his eyes. He half expected it to be one of the Massiliot guards sending out the warning about the interlopers, but the voice was coming from one of Salvius’ men. He ran to the edge of the tower and bellowed for the others to back away and stop climbing.

  There was a strange pause, and in response the men of the Seventeenth began to slide back down the ladders they were climbing, or let go of the stones and drop to the grass, others jumping down to the Musculus roof and running.

  The soldier who had shouted the warning suddenly stiffened and toppled from the wall.

  Then the arrows were flying like drops of rain. They were coming from every direction, from archers hidden in the walls and in the higher areas of wrecked tower. Ahenobarbus was no fool. He’d had men ready for just such an attempt as this. He clearly trusted Trebonius as much as the Caesarian officers trusted him.

  Men were dying in droves in that tower. Tribune Salvius appeared suddenly amid the press, pushing a panicking soldier out into the air. He stood for a long moment at the edge of the ruined tower, arrows flying all around him, throwing his men to safety.

  Fronto winced as the arrow hit the tribune. It struck him in the shoulder and the force sent the man hurtling out into the dark air.

  The wounded men of the Seventeenth, along with a few of the still untouched ones, were fleeing now, trying to leave the ruined tower. Fronto heard the creak and the ‘woof’ noise and looked up, his stomach churning with horror.

  The barrel of pitch tipped from the wall top into the ruined tower and where, a moment earlier, there had been black figures moving panicked in the darkness, suddenly there was an explosion of golden fire that illuminated the horror of burning men.

  The barrel burst as it hit the tower floor, and the sticky fire sprayed out, even beyond the ruins, spattering those men who thought they had escaped to safety. Even in the darkness of the grassy slope below, men were dying as they fled the scene, arrows thudding into them.

  Fronto heard the rhythmic thud of many boots behind him and glanced over his shoulder. A cohort or so of legionaries were pounding on toward him. It took a moment for him to realise it was Pullo and the men of the Eleventh.

  ‘No closer!’ he bellowed. ‘There are archers everywhere.’

  Pullo drew the column to a halt some distance back. Fronto’s attention returned to the dying men of the Seventeenth in front of him. Many were still intact, running for the safety of the Musculus and then using its cover to hurry back to the agger. Fronto shouted to the first centurion he saw among them.

  ‘Form your men up with mine.’

  The officer, a snapped-off arrow shaft jutting from his left arm, nodded. As he turned and barked orders to his men, Fronto took in the burned cloak hanging from his shoulders and the angry red weals on the back of the man’s legs where the fiery pitch had burned them.

  Fronto was filled with a whole gamut of mixed emotions at the sight of Salvius Cursor limping between soldiers under the shelter of the great Musculus. One arm hung limp at his side, the arrow still jutting from the shoulder, and his leg was clearly damaged, but he looked intact otherwise. Angry, but intact. As he neared Fronto, he untied the thong on his cheek pieces and flung his helmet away.

  ‘The bastards knew we were coming.’

  ‘Of course they did,’ Fronto snapped. ‘If it had been me commanding those walls I’d have done exactly the same. And so would you, you idiot. And now you’ve broken the truce and unless we can put things right, we’re back to war again and Caesar gets a ruined city of the dead when he gets here.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s time to put things right, sir,’ Pullo called, and Fronto turned to follow his pointing finger. The nearest gate in the walls had opened, and men were flooding out into the darkness, armed for war.

  ‘Look what you’ve done,’ bellowed Fronto at Salvius, and turned.

  ‘Seventeenth Legion, get your wounded and get into the brick tower. Man the scorpions but not one shot unless you hear my order. Pullo, have the men form up on the agger. We can’t deploy well, but if this comes to a fight, they won’t be able to get to us easily.’

  ‘If this comes to a fight?’ demanded Salvius.

  ‘Come with me,’ snapped Fronto.

  * * *

  The force that had issued from the gate was formed of Roman defenders, Massiliot regulars, and Albici allies. Each moved independently with their own commanders, and the Massiliot and Albici warriors moved out along the wall in the direction of the ruined tower. Once they reached the area, the native archers began to move around the grass gathering what arrows they could find that were still usable. In a siege situation, every missile reused was important.

  The Roman contingent, three cohorts strong, marched toward the brick tower and the end of the agger, their officer out front but on foot. The man was wearing a tribune’s uniform. At least it wasn’t Ahenobarbus.

  Fronto was striding out from the vineae into the open air, Salvius limping alongside, having trouble keeping up.

  ‘We are walking into the range of their arrows,’ the tribune warned.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Alone, toward three cohorts of the enemy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Anything I can to cease hostilities.’

  The Pompeian tribune, a cadaverous man with a permanent sneer, called his men to a halt and stopped in front of them, folding his arms. Fronto and Salvius moved closer until they were perhaps ten paces away, and then stopped.

  ‘Is this what a truce means to the insane proconsul of Gaul?’ the tribune snarled.

  Fronto inclined his head. ‘This was a mistake wrought by a headstrong fool, counter to the orders of his general.’

  The tribune took in the wounded man beside Fronto.

  ‘This one?’

  Fronto nodded. ‘I hope this can be resolved with diplomacy. This man acted against orders and made an unsupported attack on the breach in your walls. As far as I can see no further damage has befallen Massilia, and I am unaware of any deaths they caused. Your men, conversely, have executed almost half a cohort. Hundreds of men at that tower, dead from arrows or burning pitch. I am not speaking in their defence, for they should not have been there, but I hope that the price they have paid is enough for you to consider the matter closed.’

  The enemy tribune was silent for a moment.

  ‘Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, commander of Massilia and Pompey’s lieutenant, will not be satisfied with this.’

  Fronto could feel Salvius emanating hate beside him. ‘Perhaps I might point out,’ Fronto said quietly, ‘that while you have, as yet, launched no attack with your Romans, the very presence of three cohorts at the city gate suggests that Ahenobarbus was preparing for something.’

  ‘We have a right to defend our walls.’

  ‘You do. But three cohorts of legionaries exited that gate far too quickly to have been gathered from the walls or their barracks. They were waiting ready, armed and prepared. What was Ahenobarbus planning?’

  ‘Stop trying to twist the situation to your advantage,’ growled the tribune. ‘You broke the truce, not us.’

  ‘Yes, we beat you to it, didn’t we?’

  ‘An example must be made,’ the tribune said in a dangerous tone. ‘Give me the man responsible and I will take your offer of a further truce to the commander.’

  ‘No.’

  He could sense the surprise in Salvius. The man had clearly assumed that was why he was here.

  ‘You seek for the cessation of hostilities to continue,’ the Pompeian officer said. ‘Give me the man who attacked our city for punishment. And do not press me, or I might think to extend it to his men.’

  Fronto squared his shoulders. ‘You will take no man from this field. You outnumber us here, but this entire truce was agreed as a courtesy to prevent unnecessary damage to the civilians of Massilia. Bear in mind how close we are to entering the city. If you do not agree to
reinstating the truce, then you grant an open invitation to men like Salvius here to mob Massilia and do their worst.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’ the tribune snapped.

  ‘No. I am threatening the whole of Massilia. Accept the truce again right now, or I will not hold the men back next time they get a taste for blood.’

  There was a sudden ‘woof’ of fire and a blaze of orange light from near the tower. Fronto turned, startled. The Musculus was ablaze. While it was impenetrable from external attack, the Massiliots and Albici along the walls had set small jars of pitch among the timbers within it and lit them. The entire monstrous machine was instantly ablaze, flames licking the whole thing. Even as Fronto stared, he could see more of the natives tipping over the water barrels kept to prevent just such an occurrence.

  There was no hope for the Musculus.

  ‘Now, I will accept your truce,’ snorted the tribune.

  Fronto turned back toward the agger where the men of the Eleventh waited. Those legionaries in the tower were safe from fire behind five feet of brick, but the flames could very easily spread from the Musculus to the line of vineae along the agger.

  ‘Pullo,’ he bellowed. ‘Tip the first two vineae from the agger. Make a fire break.’

  In moments, the legionaries were pushing the timber shelters, hurling them to one side where they were in no danger of becoming part of the conflagration. The Pompeian tribune called to his men, and they turned, marching back toward the gate. Along the walls, the Albici and the Massiliots too were converging on the entrance. The officer lingered for a moment, a smug expression of victory nailed to his bony features,

  ‘My compliments to General Trebonius. Tell him we will be less generous next time.’

  And then he was gone, following his men back to the city.

  ‘I am going to make him pay for that someday,’ Fronto snarled. ‘Ahenobarbus too.’

  ‘You should have given me to him. It might have saved the Musculus.’

  ‘Shut up, Salvius.’

  * * *

  ‘I should have you stripped of command and sent to Rome in disgrace,’ Trebonius yelled, the force of his anger making Salvius Cursor lean back involuntarily. The tribune stood silent and at attention, the arrow still in his shoulder, his leg trembling as it tried to hold him up. ‘Some might say,’ Trebonius went on, ‘that I do not have the authority to punish you. You serve in a legion Caesar still has with him in Hispania. But you are attached to my army, and that makes you my soldier. I am beyond words. What made you think this was acceptable?’

  There was a pause. Salvius clearly thought it a rhetorical question.

  ‘Well?’ prompted Trebonius, shaking with rage.

  ‘I prevented a mutiny, General.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘By accepting their terms and forcing the army to sit and wait while they know Massilia to be beaten and ripe for plucking, you have fomented unrest in your own legions. The men here were ready to ignore your orders and attack, sir. I did not take your men to fight. They took me. They needed an officer and they came to me.’

  ‘That is not an excuse.’

  ‘No, sir. But the loss of a couple of hundred men to death and injury has put everything in perspective for the rest of the legions. You will have no more unrest, I suspect.’

  Trebonius took two steps toward him, narrow-eyed and trembling. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you have done me a favour?’

  Blessedly, Salvius kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Thankfully, Fronto was there to keep the peace, though it cost us the Musculus.’

  Fronto could see Mamurra seething at the back of the room.

  ‘He’s your man,’ Trebonius said, suddenly, turning to Fronto. ‘You deal with him.’

  The legate closed his eyes. Fabulous. Just what he wanted. The guilt over his actions near Ilerda was still flowing strong in his veins. Would it help to assuage it if he was lenient? He’d taken the figurine of Nemesis he habitually wore on a thong around his neck and slipped it into a box in his kit since Ilerda. He wasn’t sure he liked having the spirit of righteous vengeance touching him constantly when he had let Salvius face death unnecessarily. In honesty, he’d been feeling distinctly nervous about Nemesis ever since he’d made that whispered vow to Verginius in the quarry last autumn. He looked at Salvius Cursor. The man was a born fighter and a good soldier. He was even a good commander when he was set on a task with which he agreed. In a straight fight against an enemy the man would be an asset. He just couldn’t be trusted.

  ‘I’m removing you from active command for now,’ Fronto said, aware of how pathetic it sounded. Many officers would have had the tribune beaten or even executed for what he’d done. ‘You will continue to serve as my adjutant, where I can keep an eye on you, but you will have no command authority over any legionary. Now get to the medical tent and have that wound seen to.’

  Salvius Cursor saluted to Fronto, then Trebonius, then turned and left the building without another word.

  ‘Is that all?’ Trebonius asked quietly, once the tribune was gone.

  ‘The man is insufferable,’ Fronto replied with a sigh. ‘And potentially dangerous. But he’s like a war dog. Keep him caged and then point him at the enemy and open it up. He’s far too useful and effective to get rid of entirely.’

  ‘If you say so, Marcus. I’ve not seen signs of that.’

  ‘Because you’ve not seen him in the thick of battle. But I’m taking my lead from Caesar. Salvius has pissed off the general more times than I can count, yet Caesar still keeps him around. He must have a reason. Besides, Salvius used to serve Pompey and now he’s the biggest anti-Pompeian of the lot. One day I’m going to find out why. Anyway, I’ll keep him leashed for now. What will you do? Dispatches to Caesar?’

  ‘Hardly,’ snorted Trebonius. ‘It’s been just days since I told him all was good and that we had Massilia ready for plucking peacefully off the tree. I will try and keep knowledge of this little incident to a minimum.’

  * * *

  Fronto was sick of being woken in the middle of the night. He groggily pulled himself awake. ‘What is it?’

  His blurred eyes focused on the legionary and he was suddenly alert at the man’s expression.

  ‘The tower, sir.’

  Now he was up, throwing on his tunic and cinching his belt. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The brick tower is on fire, sir. Centurion Pullo said to come find you.’

  Fronto was out of the room and running as soon as he’d put on his boots. By the time he’d rounded the headquarters and begun the descent to the agger, he could see it. The brick tower was ablaze, just as the soldier had said.

  ‘Tell me it was empty.’

  The soldier shook his head. ‘Two centuries of the Seventeenth, sir.’

  ‘Shit.’ There were other officers hurrying along the agger now, and Fronto had to barge past tent parties of legionaries staring in shock.

  He arrived at the end of the vineae moments later. The two shelters were still out of position, tipped to the side to maintain a fire break, which was fortunate. The Musculus was nothing but charred beams and embers now. But the brick tower was lost, he could see that immediately. The top blazed like a lighthouse, and flames roared from every window and aperture. Roiling black smoke poured into the sky.

  ‘I can’t hear screams,’ he said hopefully.

  ‘They stopped not long ago, sir,’ replied bleak-faced Centurion Pullo. ‘But there were plenty.’

  ‘Why did they not leave?’

  ‘The door seems to be thoroughly sealed from the inside, sir,’ Pullo said. We tried to open it but couldn’t. One of my lads took his dolabra to it and bashed a hole in the timber but all that did was let flames out.’

  ‘I don’t understand how it happened.’

  Pullo shook his head. ‘None of us do, sir. The wood inside and all the mattresses backing the walls would go up a treat, but it would take Apollo himself to get an arrow through those holes from the e
nemy walls. And how did they seal the door?’

  ‘Whoever set fire to it, did it from the inside. Sacrificed himself. Insanity.’ Fronto shook his head.

  ‘But with the Musculus gone, sir, and now the tower, we’re losing all our advantages. A week ago we were ready to crack Massilia like a nut. Now we’ve been set back months.’

  ‘This is Ahenobarbus’ doing.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘He didn’t want this truce. The boule of Massilia forced it on him. Now he’s finding ways to set us back so that he can persuade them to stand firm. Maybe he thinks he can hold on to Massilia until help comes?’

  Fronto’s gaze slid past the blazing tower to the ruined one in the walls of Massilia. Several figures stood within the ruins watching the tower burn, illuminated by the flames’ golden light. They were Romans, and one was an officer with a red plume. He couldn’t pick out much detail in this light, and at this distance, but somehow he knew it was the tribune who had faced him earlier.

  ‘I’m coming for you, you sick bastard,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘What was that, sir?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, turning to Pullo. ‘There’s nothing else we can do here. Pull everyone back to the palisade wall and have all these vineae brought back to camp too. If they stay here they might sprout flames overnight.’

  Leaving Pullo, Fronto turned and stormed back along the agger. All the way, his thoughts churned. What sort of man burned soldiers alive just to get his way with a town council? He remembered how the three cohorts of the enemy had clearly been ready for something before Salvius launched his attack. Had they been coming out to burn the Musculus and the tower anyway, but the presence of Fronto and the cohort of the Eleventh halted them in their tracks? They’d still managed to burn the Musculus, but couldn’t get to the tower at the time. But then, later on, when everything was settled and quiet again…

  On the way back to his room, he made a visit to someone else’s quarters. Salvius Cursor was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed and hissing as he tried to stretch his left arm, the wrappings of his wounded shoulder blossoming with red as he did.