Sands of Egypt Read online

  Squinting, he looked at the small figures on the ships’ prows as they neared. For a horrible moment he thought they had indeed been wrong and the ships were packed with soldiers. In fact all they proved to be, as they came closer and the view cleared, was a small unit of sailors armed with swords and shields.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. Their numbers would be more or less equal, discounting the oarsmen, who would be unskilled natives, all men of fighting ability having been recruited into the armies of either Cleopatra or Ptolemy. And somehow, the few armed sailors, no matter how experienced they were, he couldn’t imagine standing up well against the Sixth.

  ‘Ready the trap, Carfulenus. Whistles at the ready?’

  The centurion nodded slightly, sword held in white knuckles, eyes locked on the men at the prows of those ships. Fronto smiled as he watched the vessels move in perfect formation, each lining up with those to either side, such that the entire fleet was putting in at the same time. From their commander’s point of view, simultaneous docking would allow them to throw all the men they had against the soldiers on the dock. From Fronto’s it meant they were all committed to the disaster with no reserves able to pull back.

  Good.

  He felt the centurion next to him tensing, waiting for the order, yet Fronto remained silent, watching as the ships came in to the jetties, bumping against timbers, sailors throwing out ropes. The soldiers on the quay began to clatter their swords against the rim of their shields in a rhythmic crash, threatening the approaching Aegyptians. The men on the ship prows waved their swords in the air and shouted imprecations at the waiting soldiers.

  As soon as the first ropes were in place, those shipboard warriors left the prow, running across to jump from the ships to the jetties.

  ‘Now?’ the centurion said tensely.

  Fronto held his hand up, indicating a further wait. He watched as the second line was tied off and the ramps run out. Now they were too committed. One rope could easily be cast off and a ship pushed away from a jetty. Two or more ropes and a ramp made it almost impossible to depart with any speed.

  ‘Now,’ he said, and Carfulenus lifted the whistle to his lips and blew three short bursts.

  All along the dock, the units of the Sixth standing in small knots pulled into tight formation, stepping back as their fellows rushed out of the shadows at the rear and fell in alongside them. In a matter of six heartbeats, the force on the dock went from a smattering of less than two hundred men in disorganised groups to over two thousand in tight formation. Another three bursts from Carfulenus and the call was picked up with two blasts from each centurion.

  Along a quarter mile of port, each century moved, their commander having marked their target as the ships slid into dock. It was beautifully orchestrated. Even as the twenty or so armed men leapt from the ships or ran down the ramps to face their laughably small enemy, that enemy increased tenfold and ran for them in formation, boots pounding on the stone, whistles blowing and shouts issuing forth in Latin.

  ‘Come on,’ Fronto grinned at the centurion, and then fell in behind the nearest century, racing for the ship.

  The song of battle filled him once more. No matter how creaky his joints became, and they were getting noticeably so these days, and no matter how grey his hair, Fronto knew his place in the world and it was generally at the grip-end of a blade amid men screaming their fury at an enemy.

  Racing for the nearest ship, he realised as he looked up at the prow that it was the weirdest hybrid of Greece and Aegyptus. A vessel that would not have looked out of place at Salamis or Mytilene, shaped like a traditional Greek ship and with the same ram and the painted eyes, yet with the prow curved up and back, painted in garish colours and depicting some kind of plant life.

  The soldiers were all on the jetty now, but the oarsmen to their credit, back up aboard the vessel, were hurrying to grab spars or clubs of some sort. Those in charge had now seen the increased danger and realised belatedly that they had fully committed. All they could do now was fight for control of the ships or try to flee under threat and with diminished numbers, some of their men fighting on the jetty.

  The soldiers of the Sixth were good. One of Caesar’s most established, veteran units, raised in Gaul and present at Alesia. Acquitting themselves well at Pharsalus they had become the core of the consul’s army in the chase to pin down Pompey and were now his strongest unit in Aegyptus.

  The century in front of him had closed on the men with swords and spears and had formed up, shields held forth, swords ready, left knee and left shoulder braced into the curved board and head down so that only the eyes showed above the rim. In that very protective formation they moved forwards at an inexorable pace. He watched two Aegyptians with spears throw them inexpertly and then draw swords. One of the cast missiles went wild, skittering across the jetty and disappearing into the water with a splash. Another struck a shield, and could easily have skewered the man behind it, had he not been watchful and prepared. In the end he lurched to the side, pushing his shield forward and out, angling it down even as the missile struck so that the shield might be useless now, but the spear punched only into the ground. The soldier, missing his shield, danced out of the formation to the side and jogged around to fall in at the rear, the next man taking his place.

  Then they hit the enemy.

  To give the sailors their due, they fought well for who they were and what they wielded. They wore only tunics, lacking armour and helmets. Some had shields and most swords, and they did their duty, fighting on. Three still had spears and were using them from a little further back, jabbing over or between their companions. As Fronto reached the unit and hurried around the side, dangerously close to toppling into the water from the jetty, he saw one of the Sixth fall, blood washing his face where a lucky spear thrust had slid between the cheek plates of his helmet.

  After a couple more hairy moments of trying not to topple into the water below, where he risked getting crushed between ship hull and jetty even if his armour didn’t pull him to his doom, Fronto reached the fighting. Constricted by the width of the jetty, and no one wanting to get too close to the edge, the fighting was concentrated on a narrow, six-man front, where they hacked and battered at one another. The sailors were fighting for all they were worth, knowing that there was no place to retreat, and they were doing damage, as was evidenced by the fact that when Fronto reached the fore, three of the legionaries lay dead or writhing on the timbers.

  Grunting with the effort, he threw himself forwards at the edge of the fight and for a panicky moment thought there was not going to be sufficient room and that he would fall, but managed to right himself and thrust his blade home with some force. The sailor, who had been busy parrying one of the soldiers and had his arm too high, had presented an open armpit to Fronto, who had made the most of it. His blade bit deep into unprotected flesh and the man issued a scream that swiftly passed through a gurgle and into a sigh before he fell back, dead before he touched the timbers.

  In truth there was no real need for senior officers to whet their blades here. Oh, there might have been, had reports been incorrect and these ships been crewed with appropriate marines, but they were under-staffed in terms of a fight, and the Sixth more than had their measure. Fronto had been stuck in this seething oven of a land for some time now, though, knowing that enemies were coming for them and they were trapped in the city, and the ability to take out his frustrations on a valid and visible enemy was too good a chance to miss.

  One of the sailors, realising a new threat had edged down the flank, turned, covered by his mate, and came at Fronto, sword jabbing out swiftly and wildly, like a nervous man moistening his lips with his tongue. Fronto parried once, twice, three times with ease, but realised suddenly that the man was not simply a bad swordsman. In fact, he was not really trying to wound Fronto at all, but to drive him back, which he was succeeding in doing as Fronto’s heel met only empty air and he was forced to lean forwards on his other foot to avoid tumbling fro
m the jetty into the water. The man laughed and jabbed again.

  Aware that he was delicately balanced and with little room to strike, Fronto parried one more blow and then struck in the only way he could think of that would help. His left hand shot out, grabbed his assailant by the belt, and heaved it towards himself even as he dived to his left. The swordsman, taken entirely by surprise, fell forwards with a jolt, lurching past Fronto and out into the open air, where he disappeared with a terrified cry.

  The sailor was unarmoured and the sucking depths of the harbour would not see an end to him, but the sound of heavy timbers colliding, combined with an unpleasant cracking noise and a brief bloodcurdling scream confirmed that he had been caught between the wallowing ship and the jetty, and had met his gods in that dreadful manner.

  The fight would be over in short order, he realised as he righted himself and stabbed hard into the thigh of the nearest sailor, pushing him away as he shrieked.

  A groaning noise made him frown, though, and he turned, a suspicion dawning on him.

  Yes, the reason the ship had been moving enough to crush the unfortunate sailor was because its captain had decided that the jetty was lost and was pulling what men he could back to the benches ready to depart before the vessel was overrun. One of the ropes had already been released and the ramp was being lifted. There were still just about enough sailors aboard to get it out in the water.

  Determination gripping him, Fronto looked back and forth between the ship and the melee on the jetty. He could slip past and get on board, but alone he could hardly take the ship. The Sixth were held back by the sailors, though. He had to end the fight quickly.

  One of the enemy turned, realising that Fronto had all but flanked their number at the jetty’s edge, and Fronto realised in that moment what he could do. And how stupidly dangerous it was, but that seemed of less import.

  Sword down at his side he clenched his teeth, put all his weight into his right foot, and launched himself. He’d seen the wrestlers at the baths in Rome doing this sort of thing, and the principle was simple enough, but they were almost universally a lot younger, heavier and more robust than Fronto.

  He hit the man preparing to go for him straight in the torso. He felt a line of pain scarred across his thigh as the man’s intended strike went wild in the sudden press. Fronto hit him as hard as he could, given the lack of momentum and with only three steps of space to run. Then, like those wrestlers at the baths, Fronto put all his weight into his shoulder and pushed, using his right leg as a brace, heaving and forcing his way forwards.

  There were still quite a few of the enemy, but they were closely packed and busy with the melee, not expecting this weird new attack. He sweated and strained, teeth still clenched, pushing that man at the head of a wedge of sailors. The man tried desperately to fight back, to bring his sword to bear or find room for a punch, but Fronto was all over him and the pressure on his chest was immense, making it hard to breathe.

  Fronto’s shoulder suddenly dropped forwards into space and he wondered what had happened for the blink of an eye until he heard several cries of consternation, then splashes. He grinned and redoubled his efforts. Two steps forwards and he hit the man again, pushing, driving the whole damn lot of them across the jetty and into the water. The legionaries had seen what he was doing now and threw their support in. Some continued to stab at the sailors, keeping them distracted, while three more threw themselves bodily into the fray, helping push the panicked men across the timbers and over the edge.

  As more and more sailors toppled, crying, into the water, the soldiers of the Sixth Legion rushed past Fronto to the ship. Men grabbed the ramp that was being lifted and hauled on it, pulling it back. Others grasped the ropes and pulled, hauling the ship back closer.

  Fronto almost went into the harbour with the momentum as the last of the sailors plummeted into the green water. Wobbling and shaking, he straightened as more and more of the legionaries ran for the ship.

  He turned and looked up.

  His men were on the ship now. The sailors on board were surrendering in droves, unarmed and at the mercy of the Sixth. This ship – the Diomedes – was going nowhere at least. Looking along the dock, first one way then the other, he could see similar actions being played out. The vast majority of the ships had been stormed at the jetties. Four had managed to cut themselves free and were now racing for the harbour entrance and the hope of re-joining whatever ships remained of the fleet elsewhere.

  He smiled. It had gone well. If only they’d commanded the Pharos, he could have sunk those ships attempting to flee too. That would have to be a priority in due course.

  He closed his eyes and removed his helmet, wiping the sweat from his face with his scarf and shaking his head to watch the droplets spray from his hair. Gods, but he’d never been this hot.

  Cleaning and sheathing his sword, he held his arms out like a crucified man, letting the sea’s paltry breeze refresh his armpits and sides and listening to the strange decline in sound that occurred at the closing stages of a disparate and widespread fight. Gradually, the sounds of pockets of combat faded and the tapestry of seaside noises returned to overwhelm it.

  As the sweat poured, Fronto stood and listened to the gulls and the waves…

  …and the horns.

  The horns.

  He turned and looked back across the city, a somewhat futile act as from this angle all he could see was the nearest buildings. But it confirmed for him the source of the blasts. They were the signal from the lookouts across the city.

  The warning was out.

  The Aegyptian army was here.

  Chapter Two

  Lucius Salvius Cursor stood above the Canopian Gate, and looked at the assembled force approaching across the plain of Eleusis, dust from the thousands of tramping feet shrouding the army enough to make judgement of numbers impossible. Many more than Caesar could call on, certainly. He couldn’t see a lot of gleaming, which gave him hope, for that meant that few wore a full chest of armour. The odd glimmer of chain or scale showed through the dust, but mostly they were a riot of colour, muted with the tan-hued cloud, bearing oval shields of white.

  Individually, he felt no nerves about facing them, but any experienced soldier knew that numbers counted in any engagement. The only way to beat a force so much larger than your own was to break their morale, and that seemed unlikely. Their general, Achillas, reputedly had them in the palm of his hand; this was their land, and they knew how small the Roman contingent was. Everything remained in their favour and their confidence would be high.

  He looked back across the city to the northwest. The palace region beside the water was visible above the roofs of the city. That would be their last position. If the enemy reached the palace walls they were done for. With luck, Fronto had secured sufficient ships to allow them an escape route if they needed it. But Caesar and the queen both seemed to believe that the enemy could be held at the last redoubt until a solution could be forced, once Caesar received reinforcements.

  Salvius hated playing a retreating game. It was no way to soldier. He had this nagging, irritating suspicion that this was why Fronto had placed him here instead of commanding himself, since he knew Fronto hated it just as much as he. He couldn’t see all the lines of defence, but he knew them all well enough. He was permitted a ten per cent casualty rate at most before pulling back to the next line.

  So his cohort of the Sixth – just short of five hundred men – holding this long stretch of wall would be down by fifty when they reached the first major cross street, where buildings had been pulled down to form a second barricade wall. There he could hold to four hundred men. Then back once more to the streets approaching the gymnasium complex, where the ground had been broken up with picks and mattocks to make movement slow and difficult, parts of the sewers and water channels opened to the air to cause hazards. There would begin the bombardment. Then, with only three hundred and fifty men remaining, he would fall back to the redoubt they called ‘
acropolis’, and hold with the rest of the army, and any other forces that had fallen back across the city, for his five hundred strong contingent was only one of five. Five hundred men to hold a mile of walls. Laughable.

  There was a pause as the enemy reached the first temple and split into two groups. The larger of the two picked up to a double pace, hurrying south and west, skirting the walls and crossing the canal on the Eleusis bridge to threaten the other stretches of city wall. As the dust began to settle, the men facing the city became clearer.

  Salvius Cursor’s lip twitched. No sign of the Gabiniani. They were probably at the rear, around the general himself. Instead, the colourful men with white shields that seemed to be the main force of Achillas’ countrymen formed the centre of the enemy army. They were the most disparate group he’d ever seen on the field. Mercenaries mostly, he’d guess. Easterners with desert garb carried bows and spears, Levantines with swords and bronze over their white tunics, desert riders on small horses and with light javelins, lighter-skinned men with slings… all manner of soldiers and warriors, showing no real sign of formation. But what really caught his eye were the men with almost ebony skin atop the swaying forms of elephants.

  Was Achillas clever, or stupid? A man who fielded elephants in battle was always one or the other. Deployed and handled well they could be a terrifying force, but the republic’s history was replete with tales of how disastrous elephants could be if it went wrong, ploughing through their own lines in panic. Carthage had suffered dreadfully when they fielded elephants. Salvius had never fought the beasts, though he’d read about such engagements, but he suspected that Achillas knew what he was doing. The animals were at the rear of the force, where they could not easily be spooked and where if they fled the field they could not trample their own side. Of course, their value diminished with them there, but they were undoubtedly filled with archers.