FIELDS OF MARS Read online

  ‘Does your brain ever ache,’ Fronto muttered.

  Caesar smiled irritatingly. ‘By the time anyone who opposes me in Ravenna has any idea what is happening and manages to mobilise, even if they do not immediately go the wrong way, we will be well and truly set on our course. I do not like to leave things to chance if I have the option to prepare.’

  Fronto shook his head. He was a soldier, straightforward and blunt, if clever in his own way, but no twisted politician like Caesar. As soon as it had been decided that they would move and that the time had come to stand against those bloody minded enemies in the senate, Fronto had expected Caesar to call the Thirteenth to order and march south with trumpets blaring, announcing his intention for all the world to hear. It was the soldier’s way. And it was known to work. For a start, it displayed your determination and set any less-than-confident enemy to quaking in their boots.

  Not so, Caesar. He had looked at things and decided that he would need to secure his route as he went. The most important – indeed, the critical – bastion would be Ariminium. That large coastal port town thirty miles south would be a necessary peg in the works. It marked a meeting point of roads, where the Via Aemilia, Via Popilia and Via Flaminia met. As such, it was a hub of communications. It was a garrisoned town at the edge of senatorial territory, and it often played host to a number of military ships.

  If Caesar had marched south and Ariminium had taken against him, closing its gates, he would either have to march on, leaving a defended enemy strongpoint at his rear, or get bogged down in a probably lengthy siege. Neither would be a good way to start the campaign, just having crossed the border and declared war.

  No. Caesar had decided that Ariminium had to fall swiftly and without a fight. That would give him a good supply base, and would present an example to the other towns on their route. Caesar could allow news to move ahead as to how easily the bastion of senatorial power on their northeast border simply fell into Caesar’s hands. It would make many a councillor of other towns think twice about resisting.

  The general was ever a dozen steps ahead of his opponents.

  Fronto gazed out at the dark fields to their left and right. Low-lying farmland that periodically became too soggy to work. And the marshland only became more prevalent as you travelled north. Pollio began to hum a happy little tune, which seemed rather ill-fitting to Fronto in the circumstances and had a teeth-grindingly repetitive refrain. Fronto was almost reaching the point where he would have to ask the rodent-like officer to kindly shut up when the carriage suddenly veered off the main road and onto a rough track. The jerky, bouncing motion made it impossible for Pollio to carry his ditty, and the four men were silent as the vehicle lurched for a moment before reaching a gravelled section and settling down once more. Fronto caught sight of a sign marking the road as a route to a country estate, and a moment later the lake that lay just inland from Ravenna, a stagnant lagoon four miles long and two across, appeared on their left. They were turning now. Out of sight of Ravenna and two or three miles north of its extremities, they had now turned west. They would then veer south, following the lake on small roads, crossing another minor road, passing through the village of Sabis, and then making for Ariminium on a secondary route.

  He watched from the carriage window as the view gradually changed, the position of the cold winter moon showing their rough orientation at all times. They gradually rounded the lake, Ravenna lying like a shadowy spider at the far end, reflected in the rather still surface of the water. They crossed several tracks and roads and, perhaps an hour after leaving the party, they passed through the village of Sabis, little more than a collection of a dozen houses surrounding a mansio, bath house and temple to Mercury, and then they were off on a good, paved road for a change, clattering toward Ariminium. It did not escape Fronto’s notice that the village shared a name with the river where eight years ago he and Caesar had fought side by side with desperate legions against a Belgic ambush. They had won that day against all odds. Was that a sign, Fronto wondered?

  He settled in with a sigh to welcome the onset of a headache as Pollio once again took up his jolly refrain, humming the same melody over and over again. Brutus was too busy peering out of the window to notice, and Caesar sat with arms folded and eyes closed. Anyone who didn’t know him would think he was asleep. Fronto was under no such illusion.

  They passed through another small community, which Brutus noted as Ad Novas, and a couple of miles further on Fronto was just working up to telling Pollio how irritating his humming was when Brutus suddenly sat upright, his face still at the window, and whistled through his teeth.

  ‘Well now, there’s a sight.’

  Fronto, interested, leaned forward to look past Brutus out of that window. He blinked.

  The men of the Thirteenth Legion, gleaming in the moonlight, all shadowy red and glinting silver, stood formed in a column across the fields to the side of the road. Behind them, their baggage train sat waiting, the artillery packed aboard for transport. The other officers who had been party guests were waiting here, too, including Galronus on his steed. A smattering of fog drifted among them from the frosted breath of four thousand men and half a thousand beasts. But the truly impressive and shiver-inducing thing was that they waited in absolute silence. Not even the jingling of a harness or the mutter of a cold soldier.

  Fronto mentally mapped the area and realised that the legion must have set off not long before their own carriage, but the camp lay to the southwest of the town anyway. They could slip out of the far side and move off with little chance of observation, especially with Caesar’s various lowlifes running interference for him.

  ‘Where are we?’ Fronto muttered, sitting up as the carriage rumbled to a halt.

  ‘The place doesn’t have a name,’ Pollio replied. ‘Just two farmhouses and a bridge. But unimpressive as it may be, it is somewhat auspicious.’

  Fronto frowned, and Caesar nodded. His smile had gone and been replaced with a serious, even grave, expression.

  ‘This, Fronto, is a small river – a stream, really – called the Rubicon.’

  ‘We’re at the Rubicon already?’ Fronto said, his heart suddenly picking up pace. ‘So soon?’

  Caesar simply nodded again and opened the carriage door, slipping out and stepping down to the road. The others followed suit and peered at the bridge. Wide enough for a single cart and of old, pre-Roman stone, it was an ancient edifice, existing here long before some unnamed bureaucrat planned the road to cross it. And flowing beneath it, from right to left, a sluggish stream narrow enough that Fronto could comfortably plant a foot on either side and not stretch his groin. As a provincial border, it was unimpressive. As a declaration of war it was even less so.

  The army waited on the north bank, a matter of paces from senatorial lands. The carriage sat eight horse-lengths from the crossing. And the gathering of four officers stopped short of the bridge, as though it might burn their feet.

  A tribune walked his horse across from the lead elements of the Thirteenth and dismounted, approaching Caesar respectfully. The broad stripe on his sleeve marked him as the legion’s senior tribune and, therefore, currently the de facto commander. The man had pale skin, made almost alabaster by the moonlight, dark, shining eyes, and severe, white-blond hair, which receded to either side, to leave an arrow of hair pointing down at his nose.

  ‘Caesar,’ the tribune greeted his proconsul.

  ‘Salvius.’ The general turned to the other three. ‘Lucius Salvius Cursor, gentlemen, my adjutant and current commander of the Thirteenth. Salvius, this is Brutus, Pollio you know, and this is Fronto.’

  The pale officer nodded, with not a hint of warmth about him, but then none of them were exactly grinning right now. There was a growing tension in the air you could almost chew. It was as though all the gods had stopped what they were doing and were watching this small bridge over an insignificant stream. Across the grass, and with some small relief, Fronto could see Galronus walking his hors
e toward them too.

  ‘The men are ready to move on your command, General,’ Salvius said. ‘All wagons have been double-tethered for speed. Might I recommend your cavalry guard take the lead and the Thirteenth follow along behind your carriage? Your officer Ingenuus has been twitching at not being by your side.’

  Caesar waved a hand as if to shush the man.

  ‘General?’

  ‘Patience, Salvius. We will move in due course. Give me a moment.’

  ‘This is it, Caesar,’ Fronto said quietly as Galronus arrived and slipped from his mount to stand beside them. The general simply nodded. ‘Across that river,’ Fronto went on, ‘we are not only up against Pompey, but against the current senate, the consuls, and any nobiles and governors who choose to side with old knob-nose.’

  Again, Caesar just nodded.

  ‘Can we yet go back?’ the general asked quietly.

  ‘Sir?’ Pollio frowned.

  ‘I asked if we can yet go back,’ the general repeated. ‘Once we cross that little bridge, years of strife and conflict will come to a head, and it will only be settled with the sword. I know we all hope that the senate and the people will see sense and back down – capitulate and accede to my requests. And some might. It may even be that the consuls can be persuaded and the senate cowed. But as long as Pompey stands and breathes, he and I will be irreconcilable now. There will be no peace between us. So no matter who accedes, the decision will end on a blade. I ask one last time: Can we yet go back?’

  Fronto bit his lip. He would love to have answered with a positive.

  ‘Only by placing your neck in Pompey’s hands,’ Brutus said quietly.

  ‘And subjecting yourself to prosecutions,’ Pollio added.

  Fronto sighed. ‘That was not a real question, Gaius. If you believed there was even a chance this could be avoided, you would not have done what you’ve done. We are as committed to our course hovering here on the north bank as we will be when we stand on the far side.’

  Caesar was nodding as Tribune Salvius coughed. ‘The Thirteenth stand ready, Caesar. They thirst for action. Give them blood, General.’

  Caesar’s head snapped round.

  ‘Blood? Not if it can be avoided, Salvius. Remember that the blood you advocate spilling is that of Romans, not some nameless hill tribe.’ The fire went out in the general’s eyes as quickly as it had kindled. ‘But you are right. If we are to move, then we must move. The time has come.’

  ‘The game proceeds, Caesar,’ Fronto said quietly, his eyes raising momentarily to the sky where the gods watched.

  ‘Then let the die be cast,’ sighed Caesar. ‘Bring me my horse. If I am to invade the republic, I will do it in honour and glory and at the head of my column, not skulking in a wagon any longer.’

  An equisio hurried forward with the officers’ horses. Pollio waved his away. ‘I will stay in the carriage for the good of my rump,’ he said with a half-smile. ‘I’m not as young as I was and I appreciate every opportunity to not tan my arse to leather on the back of a horse.’

  Brutus nodded. ‘I too.’

  Fronto reached for Bucephalus’ reins. ‘I for one am sick of the carriage and its endless melody.’ He gestured to Caesar. ‘I shall be at your back, sir, as always.’

  ‘I can think of no one better to have there,’ smiled Caesar. ‘Very well then. Salvius? Look to the legion and send Aulus Ingenuus up front, but tell him no more than six riders. I do not want to be swamped by my own guard.’

  They mounted as the others moved off. There was a long, pregnant pause during which Fronto, his breath pluming, rubbed Bucephalus’ mane and neck lovingly, the ebony beast nickering quietly. He nodded to Galronus, wondering if the Remi noble felt the same ominous sense of fate as his Roman companions. The lead element of Ingenuus’ Praetorian cavalry moved forward, half a dozen men following the young prefect as he approached and bowed to Caesar, expertly controlling his own horse with his knees and his three-fingered hand.

  Fronto had to correct himself as he looked over the professional cavalry veteran. Ingenuus was no longer a young prefect. Almost a decade had passed since he had been blooded during the war against the Helvetii.

  The Thirteenth began to move into position with a light jingling and a steady thump of feet on turf. Finally, they were all ready.

  ‘The dubious honour is yours, Caesar,’ Fronto said breathlessly.

  The general nodded and, hesitantly, stepped his horse out onto the bridge. As they passed the narrow, snaking stream and moved on along the road from the south bank, making for the last ten mile stretch to Ariminium, Fronto felt the world shift subtly around him. He had spent his entire life serving Rome. In Spain and in Gaul. He had upheld the republic’s values and laws his whole life. Now, as an ageing officer, he was turning his back on all that in favour of a man he had more than once accused of megalomania. But whatever he might think of Caesar, the man was in the right here. He had been manoeuvred into a corner with only one path open to him. What man could do anything else?

  Biting down on the feeling that a dozen generations of Falerii were glaring disapprovingly from their funerary urns, he walked his horse on into Italia at the head of their small army.

  * * *

  Ariminium was truly a fortress. Fronto had expected something powerful for he knew, as did every Roman who’d held a sword, that for two centuries Ariminium had been Rome’s fortified north-eastern bastion against the Gauls. For much of that time it had been a city, and had been a powerful, walled one, too.

  Ariminium was a stronghold. Positioned by the sea and in the crook of two rivers, it was entirely surrounded by water, reached by three bridges, facing north, west and south. The most impressive of these was the one that faced the travellers as they arrived – a huge long span of white arches marching across the blue torrent and leading them to a solid gatehouse in impressive heavy walls. Caesar’s instincts had been correct. If they had to lay siege to this place it would be the work of months.

  Fortunately, things seemed to be more welcoming than that.

  The sun had begun to make an appearance, though as yet it was still a glow on the horizon, but the light was enough to show that the city gate lay open and that crowds thronged the walls. Not soldiers – evocati and garrison men armed with spears and catapults – but bakers and gardeners and scribes and slaves.

  It was forced, clearly, and yet given the alternatives, the sight was as welcoming to Fronto as if it had been genuine.

  ‘They seem happy,’ Galronus noted, pointing at the waving figures on the battlements.

  ‘You would wave with delight had you a sword point at your back. This is the work of the cohort Caesar sent here yesterday. The entire population of Ariminium on the walls to welcome us before dawn? Hardly. This is a show of loyalty from a populace who know their fate relies upon one man’s goodwill.’

  The column rode, trundled and stomped across the bridge slowly to the cheers and adulation of the crowd above. It could only logically have been happy accident that the sun chose that very moment to peek over the briny horizon just as Caesar was halfway across the bridge, catching his gleaming cuirass, white hair, red cloak and white horse and making him look like a hero straight out of legend. And yet Fronto could easily imagine the old bugger sitting in the carriage at midnight working out the time of the sunrise and planning his approach accordingly. Certainly the effect raised an ‘ooooh’ from the crowd.

  Lucius Salvius Cursor had contrived to move ahead of the legion so that he was among the riders at the front with Caesar and his officers, which was fortunate as the general turned as they neared the walls and gestured to him. ‘Have the Thirteenth form in cohorts in the forum.’

  Salvius saluted, his glassy dark eyes playing across the defences as though working out how to breach or hold them as required. The vanguard passed through the gates to find several centuries of the Thirteenth in civilian dress but formed up on the sides of the street at attention. A junior tribune who had led the insurgent
s, along with the senior centurion commanding, were clearly such, even dressed the same as the others, and the tribune stepped forward as Caesar reined in his horse.

  ‘This way, General.’

  Quarter of an hour later, the new arrivals had passed through the packed streets of Ariminium, through a tense, cheering crowd, and to the forum. Fronto followed Caesar, along with the other officers, as they moved up the steps and into the basilica off one side of the square. Inside, more soldiers in just tunic and boots had clearly secured and emptied the grand edifice. Caesar was escorted to a large office, where he sank into a seat. The tribune cleared his throat.

  ‘It is my pleasure to report that Ariminium is yours, General, and is secure.’

  Caesar nodded. ‘And what of its councillors and commanders? They are not here to greet us?’

  A nervous look crossed the face of the tribune. He was young and inexperienced but he had clearly done well, heavily reliant no doubt upon that senior centurion.

  ‘The centurion and I differed in opinion, General. I gave orders that the ordo, who were extremely resistant to our arrival and the imposition of military law in the city, be locked up in a secure location, along with the garrison prefect and the evocati commander who had been identified to us.’

  Fronto rolled his eyes. Excellent!

  ‘The centurion advocated freeing the civilians to follow their own course and quartering the officers pending your arrival.’

  ‘And where is this secure location?’ Salvius Cursor asked his junior tribune. Again the man swallowed nervously.

  ‘I’m afraid I acceded to the will of the senior centurion, sir. He is a veteran of some standing, and I felt would more correctly anticipate the wishes of the proconsul through familiarity than I who have only served with the Thirteenth a few months.’