FIELDS OF MARS Read online

  ‘Then emulate the Macedonian King Philip,’ Salvius said hurriedly, jabbing a finger at Caesar. ‘Divide and conquer. Take Ilerda and remove the army’s supplies and control of the bridge.’

  Fronto saw Antonius’ face and almost smiled as he caught the reason. Salvius Cursor had been so urgent in pushing his argument that he’d overstepped his mark and forgotten to even grant the general any kind of title or honorific, instead wagging a finger at him. Antonius or Brutus, or even Fronto, might be able to get away with such unseemly familiarity because they had all known the general since before his rise to power. Salvius had no such advantage, and Caesar looked faintly peeved. The tribune’s desperation had led him to trip himself up and even Antonius knew they’d lost the argument now.

  ‘General?’ prompted Salvius, frowning at Antonius.

  ‘Quiet,’ Marcus Antonius told him in a subdued tone.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Quiet.’

  ‘We shall consolidate our camp and settle in for the duration,’ Caesar said finally. ‘I shall ponder further moves, but that is all for now.’

  The meeting was over, and the officers immediately began to disperse, heading back to their own units. Galronus nodded to Fronto and the pair left the tent, heading toward the Tenth’s lines. Though Fronto would have to return to his new command shortly, Carbo had invited him for a drink to catch up with old friends, and Fronto had readily accepted. He’s not seen the hulking Gallic primus pilus Atenos for far too long.

  ‘That was low,’ snapped a voice behind him and Fronto stopped, turning on his heel with Galronus beside him, the balmy evening air loaded with passion flower and hibiscus doing nothing to mask Salvius stepping closer like the bad smell he so clearly was.

  ‘Forms of address for a superior officer aren’t your strong point tonight, are they, Tribune Salvius?’

  The man’s nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘That was low, sir.’

  ‘That was a frank and free exchange of opinions. I tore down your argument with such ease because it was constructed of straw and nothing more. The general does not favour your bloodthirsty approach and, if you persuade him toward your way of thinking, he will lose that edge of respect and favour he has received in so many quarters since we crossed the Rubicon. His magnanimity has won him several extra legions, the love of towns that had been arrayed against him and has avoided the spilling of a sea of Roman blood thus far. I am no idiot, and I can see that this war will yet witness violence and bloodshed – it can only be resolved that way – but let’s try and save that until we’re facing Pompey, and not carve a bloody trench through people who need not necessarily be our enemies.’

  He stopped, breathing heavily, realising he’d gradually raised his voice as his anger at the man built. He looked around. Soldiers and officers alike were watching them. Angrily, Fronto turned to the nearest tent, which belonged to a unit of Ingenuus’ guardsmen. He strode over and threw open the flap.

  ‘This tent is being commandeered for a few moments. Step outside, gentlemen, and make yourselves scarce.’

  Three horsemen emerged swiftly, bowing to Fronto and hurrying away. ‘Get inside,’ he snapped at Salvius Cursor, who did so, bristling with indignation.

  ‘Permission to speak freely?’ Salvius said darkly once they were inside and the tent flap back in place. Galronus stood outside the door to ward off those who might eavesdrop.

  ‘I’ve not noticed you having a problem doing so thus far,’ Fronto replied acidly.

  ‘I am aware that you are my commander and I could be disciplined for insubordination, and I wouldn’t put it past you, either, sir,’ the tribune hissed.

  ‘Very well, Salvius. Speak freely.’

  ‘I do not trust you, Fronto. I think you are weak. You’re clearly too old for command…’

  ‘I’d be careful not to say that around the general,’ Fronto interrupted.

  ‘…and you’ve gone soft. They say you don’t even like to keep slaves and that you have mostly paid servants. I’ve seen you whisper honeyed words into the general’s ear ever since Ravenna. And I have yet to see you do a single thing of value or note. You are a has been riding on the reputation you made long ago when you were still vital. You have no strength left and no value in this army. At best you are weak and cowardly. At worst you are a traitor, either imposing yourself on Caesar’s staff in order to ruin this campaign, or possibly even placed here by your good friends like Labienus or Galba. That’s right. I know how many of your friends are now siding against Caesar. You will prove the downfall of this army, Marcus Falerius Fronto, and I believe in Caesar and his success to my core. I will not let you destroy everything the general has built.’

  Fronto stood, narrow-eyed, waiting for another outburst, but there was just a tense, seething silence as Salvius glared at him.

  ‘Now listen to me, you insolent, arrogant little turd,’ Fronto growled like Cerberus emerging from the gates of Hades.

  ‘Now…’ began Salvius.

  ‘No. You’ve had your say. And not as officer to officer. As man to man. Now it’s my turn.’

  He stepped forward so that his face was remarkably close to Salvius’, Fronto’s stale-wine breath clouding the tribune’s features as he spoke.

  ‘I am old. Yes. Nearly as old as Caesar. But if you think for one minute I’m past command or fighting, you are in for something of a shock, and any time you want to take up a wooden training sword and test my mettle I will happily break a limb or two and put you on your soft downy arse to prove the point. You want to fight, then you just ask any time. As for my beliefs, friendships and motivations, I will tell you this. We are in a state of civil war. Yes, I have friends who now serve Pompey. And yes I once even considered it myself. But in our army are men who once served Pompey, yourself included. In a civil war there will always be friends facing friends across the field of battle, and brothers facing brothers. And, yes, it may be necessary, but whether necessary or not, such a thing is not to be relished and certainly never sought if there is any alternative. Outside our borders are a plethora of enemies waiting to pick over Roman bones. The Gauls of Britannia. The Germans. The Iazyges and the Parthians. The African tribes. Every Roman who kills another Roman is doing the work of the republic’s enemies. Weakening Rome. So yes, I want to avoid as much killing as possible. But the time is coming. Until then you can hate me all you like, and you can even question me in the privacy of your own head, but if you once speak out of turn in front of other people, I will smash that glib tongue of yours through the back of your skull. Now, I am your legate and you are my senior tribune. We have to work together. The Eleventh are as committed to this fight as any other legion, and we will do what is required with efficiency and spirit, and any time you stand before that eagle I want a smile of pride and an expression of deference on that smarmy face of yours. Am I clear?’

  ‘As spring water,’ snarled Salvius Cursor, ‘sir!’

  ‘Good. Now get out of my sight before I decide that being one tribune down could actually be a benefit to this army.’

  Salvius Cursor gave a stiff salute, unable to prevent his lip curling, and turned, leaving sharply. Fronto waited a while, getting his breathing under control, and then followed him out to find Galronus grinning.

  ‘I don’t know what you said to him, but I would avoid getting caught in the latrines alone with him for a while. That was a face of murder he wore.’

  ‘I’m not frightened of him,’ Fronto said quietly.

  ‘You should be. Lunatics harbour dangerous strengths. Take it from part of a family of them.’

  Laughing, Galronus clapped an arm around Fronto’s shoulders and steered him toward wine.

  Chapter Nine

  23rd of Junius - Ilerda

  The legions worked hard, toiling in the already hot sun, steam rising from the ground where the minimal dew had almost evaporated. Birds cawed and bees hummed as a thread of sound woven through the tapestry of soldiers fortifying a camp. The hack of a dolabra – the s
oldier’s standard-issue mattock – striking dry earth and rocks and pebbles, the slicing sound of shovels cutting into turf and dusty mud. The grunt and panting of men labouring, along with a few quietly-sung songs traditionally accompanying such work.

  Over the top of it all, the calls and complaints of centurions and engineers as they adjusted the work and corrected minor faults that no one but an engineer would ever know had been perpetrated.

  There was no wind. The banners hung limp as men paused in their work to mop their faces with scarves that now hung from their armour rather than sitting tight around their neck as padding for the metal. Common practice when forming camp defences was for the men labouring to remove their armour, helmet and weapons and work in just tunic with perhaps a straw hat to ward off the sun. Not so here and now. Orders had been clear: the men would work in their armour, albeit unarmed, and their helmet, shield and sword would be within fingertip reach at all times.

  Because the danger remained.

  At the top of the hill the army of Petreius and Afranius remained contained within the walls of their fort, but they were strong and unafraid. They were an ever-present threat.

  The defensive ditch was now crawling slowly across the landscape back away from the enemy at both sides of the camp, while a lesser party had already begun on the rear defences some distance back. Other men were forming a low rampart with the dirt removed from the ditches, while a third group formed a sharp fence from the sudis stakes carried in the wagons and set them atop the rampart as a wall of sharpened timber.

  Fronto stood with Felix, watching as the men of the Eleventh raised the rampart at the front, facing the enemy camp across the ditch dug the previous day. The centurion had made one concession to the heat of the day. He had swapped his wool helmet liner for the felt and linen one he carried as a spare. His armour gleamed and his helmet, topped with a transverse crest of red-dyed feathers, glowed in the morning light. He wore greaves embossed with some unidentifiable god’s image and a cuirass of the traditional sort bearing a medusa head for luck. The pteruges that hung from shoulders and waist beneath the armour were of long-hardened leather and his vine stick looked as old as time. Fronto approved. Felix was the quintessential centurion.

  In fact, Fronto had emerged from his tent that morning in light kit with just a linen tunic and leather subarmalis, fringed with decorative pteruges. One look at Felix stomping around the camp and smacking slovenly legionaries with his stick while his armour shone like a jewel had sent Fronto scurrying back into his tent to re-emerge quickly, this time in full armour. Once more a legate, he had been assigned a body slave and two tent slaves, as well as two clerks, a barber/bath attendant, a musician, a courier and six bodyguards. He had spent an hour finding things for most of them to do to keep them out of the way, had instructed the six guards to keep watch on his tent and not himself, and had, by the morning, trimmed his active and attentive staff down to one tent slave and a clerk. He had nothing against a bodyguard, of course, and even missed Masgava and the others, who had remained in Tarraco to watch over the family, but as often as not bodyguards got in the way rather than providing protection.

  And so, dressed in the armour polished by his tent slave, Fronto had come down with Felix to encourage the men. Legionaries may respect their most senior commander, but they didn’t always like them, and Fronto knew that to have the heart of his men, he had to be among them, one of the legion. It was something Caesar had taught him, and something that both Pompey and Crassus had overlooked in their commands.

  Felix barked out a series of expletives at a soldier who accidentally threw a shovel full of dry dirt across the centurion’s foot and Fronto couldn’t help but smile, his gaze turning away and sliding along the defences until it fell upon something that killed his humorous mood instantly.

  Salvius Cursor stood on the raised mound at the corner of the camp, his face sour as he stared up at the enemy fortifications. The tribune had busied himself early in the morning flitting around the staff officers until he managed to see Caesar and Marcus Antonius, whom he attempted once more to persuade into precipitate violence. Antonius had shooed the man away before Caesar had too much opportunity to lose his temper, and Salvius had returned to the Eleventh in a foul mood where he had proceeded to avoid Fronto and any level of communication. It suited Fronto down to the ground, and he wondered idly what the enemy’s range was with a catapult from up on their ramparts and whether if Fronto painted the tribune purple they might helpfully put a steel-tipped bolt through him.

  Behind him, he heard the rising cascade of honks that announced the first morning break. Toil would continue across the camp, of course, but all around the works small groups of men would move with amphorae of cold water and wooden cups and baskets of bread with pots of butter that would already fast be becoming oil. As they moved around the camp in ripples, men would pause and down their tools to chew on something hearty and sluice it down with a cup of chilled water. Otherwise, throughout the day they would be able to rely for refreshment only on the tepid water in their flasks and the hard, dry bucellatum biscuits from their packs.

  Fronto didn’t hear the first call. The musicians of the six legions were honking all over the hillside, warning the workers that water and bread was coming round, and it was only when the enemy gates opened that Fronto realised the enemy calls had been timed to meet their own, masking their intentions.

  Fronto shouted the alarm, but his voice was drowned out by their own musicians. He saw Salvius Cursor waving frantically at a centurion, and next to him, Felix was gesturing to his standard bearer and cornicen who were standing nearby waiting for orders. The signal having finally been given, Fronto’s attention rose once more to the hillside.

  It was not a full-scale assault. That much was instantly clear. The men who had emerged were native levies – the auxilia serving with Petreius. Hispanics and Iberians with a variety of weapons and armour, they had to belong to a number of different units. They poured down the hill from the camp at a pace the legionaries would not be able to manage due to their equipment and formation. These men were equipped as light skirmishers and could travel at an impressive speed. Here and there one would tumble, but they were agile enough that it would not cause a mass slip, and they were closing on the Caesarians fast.

  The men of the Eleventh and Seventh – the bulk of the men working on this rampart had been drawn from those legions – were in levels of disarray as they scrambled to prepare themselves and follow the calls of their units. Some had been in the ditch affixing sharpened points, while others were sat with their bread and water. Men were now hurrying across to their shields and trying to tie on their helmets with numb fingers while every man looked this way and that to locate their standards ready to fall into line. There would not be enough time to form on standards before the swift natives hit them, and both Fronto and Felix had seen as much.

  ‘To the rampart,’ Fronto shouted. ‘Forget your standards and form on Felix.’

  Other officers took up the shout, bellowing to the men as they armed and ran to ‘form on Felix’.

  Fronto returned his attention to the approaching enemy. They were coming in a mass rush without formation, but he could identify three distinct lines to their approach. At the front were men with javelins and small, round shields, much like the velites of the ancient days. Behind them were men with larger shields and the native Hispanic swords from which Rome had borrowed the gladius design. Finally, at the back were men in white tunics and belts with no visible weapon, but a pouch at their side. Fronto knew damn well what they would be.

  ‘They have no intention of engaging. They’re coming to shower you,’ Fronto shouted.

  ‘Shields ready,’ Felix urged. ‘Prepare to receive a volley.’

  Across the rampart, Fronto heard a bellowed oath to Minerva and could see Salvius gathering men to him. What was the lunatic doing? Still, Fronto didn’t have time to consider it. He allowed the shield wall to close in front of him since he wa
s carrying no shield, though he drew his sword ready, as did Felix beside him.

  A discordant din of honks and toots blared out from the camp atop the hill and Fronto frowned at the mess. He was familiar with every legion’s calls in the rule book. He had served with more than one unit in his time, and while each legion individualised their calls, there were common themes among them so that an experienced officer would likely be able to ascertain what the calls of another unit meant. The noise blarting out from the hill above was like nothing he had ever heard. What in the name of Apollo were they trying to do?

  ‘Do you hear that?’ Felix asked him as he watched the enemy close on them.

  ‘Yes. What the shit does it mean?’

  ‘It’s two calls at once. Half the musicians up there are calling a cohort forward and the other half are sounding the retreat for the auxilia. Talk about confusion!’

  Fronto dropped his gaze once more to the approaching enemies who were clearly either ignoring that call from above or unaware that it had been given. He smiled. It seemed that the division in command between Petreius and Afranius was more troublesome than they had dreamed. If this was the level of disagreement and chaos they could expect from the enemy, then perhaps there was a chance to end things quickly after all.

  ‘Incoming,’ bellowed Felix, and shields rose slightly along the rampart. Behind Fronto, who stood in the second line, a legionary lifted his shield to cover his commander.

  The javelins had been loosed not in a cloud as would have happened with better organisation, but rather in sporadic fits as each man reached a certain distance. Fronto could see it happening between the shields. The javelin throwers were running to a position perhaps ten feet back from the ditch and hurling their weapons. The javelins were light and sleek, unlike the heavier legionary pila, and they arced up easily and fell among the shield wall. It was not as effective as a steady assault would have been, but still there were cries of agony here and there as a man was transfixed through with four feet of wood. Men were pierced in the thigh or the midriff, the chain shirts inadequate protection against those sharp points at such force. In places along the line the shields had not yet formed, men still running into position. There the javelins had a more brutal impact, the speed and unexpectedness of the enemy assault having caught them off guard.