Marius' Mules XI: Tides of War Page 6

  ‘Will he attack as soon as he gets here?’ Galronus asked.

  Fronto glanced to Salvius Cursor as the expert, a man who had once served with the general and knew his mind better than many. The tribune chewed on his cheek. ‘I don’t think so. He won’t risk it. By now he knows we’ve sealed Dyrrachium to him so there is no need to rush. His column will be strung out over a distance, just as ours was, and it will take time to bring up sufficient forces to face an army our size. Given the obstacle of the river, he won’t risk it. My guess is that he’ll encamp opposite us while he decides his next move. We control a lot of territory now, but he still has the edge while Dyrrachium is his and his ships prevent supplies and reinforcements reaching us.’

  Fronto nodded. ‘In fact, with the sea to the west, Dyrrachium to the north, Pompey to the south and unknown barren hills to the east, we have a limited time here before we begin to starve. Pompey will recognise that straight away and he’ll have solid supply lines out towards Macedonia. He might just sit there and watch us die of hunger.’

  ‘Unless the fleet starves first and gives up the blockade,’ Galronus mused. ‘Looks likely.’

  The others nodded. The fleet might still have the coast secured, but they were definitely weakening and failing. Even before the army had been on the march, while men were still stationed at the coast, rumours had begun to filter in. Bibulus had been ill, and had died in agony aboard his command ship. In his absence, he being the strong, violent commander who kept the fleet functioning as one, there had been fragmentation. There seemed no clear successor for overall command, and each high-ranking officer had taken control of the ships he had commanded before the blockade. The worst-affected had left the blockade altogether, hurrying for Dyrrachium to resupply, or to Pompeian cities far to the north or south. Fifty ships under Libo had vanished entirely. It was suggested that they had hurried west to carry the blockade to Brundisium. With the disappearance of more than a hundred ships in total, the remaining fleet had reshuffled to maintain their cordon, though now they were well spaced and a wily commander might be able to break through.

  So once more it had become a race. With their securing of the Apsus crossing and denying Pompey his base, that first contest was over, but now it was a matter of who would starve first: Caesar’s army, trapped in hostile lands, or the reduced fleet that kept his reinforcements away.

  They stood in silence for a while, the sounds of axes, saws, mattocks and grunting and huffing the only noise, rising from the works all around them. After almost half an hour a timber platform went up above the rampart, some twenty feet from ground level, and the three men climbed atop it for a better view, though all it really offered was a panoramic vision of the sea of white. A pair of soldiers brought a small folding table and placed jugs of water and wine and a bowl of buttered bread on it, all of which was ignored while the officers peered expectantly into the mist.

  The Tenth’s legate had not realised just how tense he’d become until the last of the carts rumbled from the dirt road onto the solid bridge, a rear-guard of a hundred men gathered on the far bank for protection. He exhaled noisily. They had done it. And with only moments to spare. Barely had the rumble of cart wheels died away with that vehicle’s passing onto the north bank than a new noise filled the weird, white world.

  Horns.

  Fronto’s breath caught again and his eyes rose from the bridge, where men were now jostling in a desperate hurry to be across, to the southeast. The noise came again. A cascade of notes that resolved in the damp, dull mist to become a traditional marching cadence.

  Fronto took a deep breath. ‘Here we go.’

  Shapes emerged from the mist. Speculatores and exploratores, scouts who peeled off into a wide arc ahead of their compatriots. Then came the cavalry. Fronto felt his heartrate increase at the sight. They came in perfect formation, eight riders abreast, the column disappearing seemingly endlessly back into the mist. These were not the scarce regular Roman riders or Gallic allies like those Galronus had commanded. These were Illyrian or Macedonian riders, armoured in bronze and with spears and shields that depicted myriad colourful designs. Some had crests or long flowing plumes. They were heavy cavalry and, from their perfect formation and their equipment, experts and veterans.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Shiny helmets and bright paint do not make a warrior,’ Galronus snorted.

  Fronto rolled his eyes. You could plaster civilisation on the Remi as much as you liked, but Belgic pride always lay deep within. ‘They will be good. Very good. The peoples of these lands have been training as cavalry for centuries. Have you ever heard of Alexander of Macedon?’

  ‘I’m guessing he’s not a poet,’ Galronus grunted.

  ‘Macedonian king about three hundred years ago. Using riders like that and phalanxes of spear men he forged an empire larger than the republic is now. He even beat Persia, and no one beats Persia. They ended Crassus, if you remember?’

  ‘If he was so good, where’s his empire now?’

  Again, Fronto rolled his eyes. ‘No heir. A king without an heir means trouble. When he died young, his generals carved the empire up. Seleucus took the east, Lysimachus the Achaean peninsula and Ptolemy took Egypt. There were other smaller successors, but those were the big three.’

  ‘And what happened to them?’

  Fronto sighed. Was this really the time for a history lesson? But then Galronus was a cavalry commander and it might help him to know a little about the people they might yet face. Certainly he needed to be less sure and cocky than his Belgic pride demanded.

  ‘The Selecuids were around for a while. Lost a lot of territory gradually to the Parthians, then they were finally finished in Syria about fifteen years ago, by Pompey no less. The Antigonids ruled from Macedon and they were finished off by Aemilius Paullus over a hundred years ago. And the Ptolemies? Well they still rule Egypt. There’s a brother and sister ruling together at the moment, but it’s said they hate each other, so their marriage won’t last long.’

  ‘And will you be the Roman to end the Ptolemies?’ Galronus said.

  Fronto frowned at him, not sure whether the Remi was joking or serious. ‘Rome has no designs there. Not of which I’m aware, anyway.’

  ‘Rome has designs everywhere, Marcus.’

  Fronto turned away, unsettled by the notion, and peered at the cavalry. They had split into two groups now and moved off to each side. The legions were emerging from the mist now, and the sight made Fronto feel queasy. Chain shirts over russet tunics, gleaming bronze helmets and long red shields, they could so easily be Fronto’s men. The knowledge that they were facing their own people, brothers and cousins, surfaced unpleasantly once more. Those men now marching out of the mist could quite possibly be the same First Legion who had served under Caesar against Ambiorix.

  He stood, continuing to feel disgruntled and unhappy, watching Pompey’s army arrive. Gradually the legions moved into place and formed ranks. Some were clearly new and untried, gleaming and not quite as sharp as the others, but they were well-equipped and strong. More cavalry appeared, light, skirmishing riders, then rank upon rank of native auxiliaries, with archers, phalanxes, slingers and more. Finally, as the vast ranks of men stood silent across the churned grass to the south, the commanders arrived with a bodyguard unit of horsemen.

  Pompey had perhaps two dozen senior officers with him, clerks and musicians, standard bearers and even lictors following on. Then came the start of the long line of supply and artillery wagons, along with yet more legionaries who’d been the rear-guard.

  Galronus whistled through his teeth. ‘How many?’

  Fronto rubbed the back of his neck, his other hand rapping repeatedly on his hip. ‘Best part of fifty thousand, I’d say.’

  ‘And how many have we got?’

  ‘Not much more than a quarter of that, I reckon.’

  ‘Not good odds.’

  ‘No. Though to be honest, I’m surprised there aren’t more. Rumour put his numbers higher
. He must still have men out east that he left behind in the hurry to get here. There are rumours that Scipio rushes to his aid from Syria with two more veteran legions, as well.’

  ‘If he decides to attack,’ Salvius muttered, ‘then the river will nullify his advantage.’

  ‘Maybe. Pompey’s no fool, though. If he does come, it will be because he knows how to gain the advantage. This is a man who’s had three triumphs in Rome. A man whose reputation was built solely on military success.’

  They had not noticed the other observation platforms going up along the south rampart, so fixated were they on the view across the river, and it was only when a horn blew that they realised the others were now occupied. Caesar had arrived to take in his opposition’s number and position. The general, along with Sulla and Calvinus, stood on the next platform.

  ‘Impressive, eh, Fronto?’ the general called out, sounding almost jovial.

  Fronto threw him a sour expression. ‘I’d rather they were less so, Caesar.’

  ‘Fear not,’ the general said loudly, ‘there is still time for a diplomatic solution.’

  ‘Not unless you intend to show him your belly in submission, General.’

  Caesar chuckled. ‘Remember, Fronto, that Pompey and Crassus and I kept things perfectly functioning for some time. There is little we cannot achieve if we manage to come to an accord. I’m sure that deep down Pompey still harbours some affection for his father-in-law.’

  ‘I think there’s more chance of Crassus coming back from the dead than Pompey coming to a settlement.'

  ‘Is there really no chance?’ Galronus muttered, as Caesar turned to answer some question of Sulla’s.

  ‘Neither of them is going to be willing to surrender to the other. Both will only accept a conclusion to their advantage. Caesar will not relinquish his consulship or disband his legions. Pompey will not accept a judgement from Rome, for the senators favourable to him are almost all in his army now. Neither can truly back down. Something nasty is coming, and soon.’

  The Remi noble frowned. ‘I thought you still hoped for a solution. I was under the impression you still thought one possible.’

  ‘No. Not any more. And neither does Caesar.’

  ‘But he said…’

  ‘Yes. He said it can still be resolved. And he said it nice and loud so that some of the men at the front of Pompey’s force will have heard. That will filter through the ranks. Men might think twice if they believe they enemy are willing to seek peace. Pompey will never submit, but there is always the possibility that the men serving him might. Men like Labienus and Afranius. Men who have been Caesar’s friends before now, or pardoned by him. There is no hope for a diplomatic solution with Pompey, but he could still be undermined.’

  ‘Not from that distance,’ Salvius grunted and gestured at the officers. Pompey and his men had stopped way back from the river to the south, out of earshot and, perhaps tellingly, out of artillery range. Even as Fronto watched, whistles blew and orders were called, and the legions of Pompey began to construct camp ramparts on the south bank, echoing those rising on the north.

  ‘They seem to have no fear,’ Galronus noted. ‘They’re not only working in artillery range, but a good archer could even hit them with an arrow from here.’

  ‘I think there is still some confusion as to whether we’re truly at war here. No spears have been thrown and it’s just been a lot of running around and posturing.’

  ‘Tell that to the sailors Bibulus killed,’ Salvius spat.

  Fronto’s expression darkened. ‘True. But the vast majority of souls on these banks want nothing more than to come to an agreement, avoid a conflict and just go home. No soldier looks forwards to a fight…’ he looked Salvius Cursor up and down and corrected himself. ‘Few soldiers look forwards to a fight, but even fewer want to fight their own countrymen. No one will launch a missile until all other avenues have been closed.’

  His attention was drawn rather suddenly to a shout from below, and he peered down to see a legionary with a loud voice cupping his hands to his mouth.

  ‘You want a hand?’ the man bellowed across the river. Half a dozen legionaries busy cutting earth sods on the south bank paused and straightened. ‘Not really, but if you’ve got too much wine, we’ll take that off your hands!’

  There was a small explosion of mirth across the water and the soldier below Fronto replied. ‘You’re not cutting that straight sober. A jug of wine and you’ll be swerving down into the river.’ This initiated a burst of laughter from the Caesarian ramparts, and in moments half a dozen exchanges had begun in loud, shouted tones across the river.

  A centurion appeared from somewhere and blew a whistle, snapping out orders for quiet and decorum, but Caesar, a twinkle in his eye, leaned down from his viewing platform and gestured at the officer. ‘Let them have their camaraderie, Centurion. They are all brothers under the eagle, after all.’

  Fronto smiled. ‘Another tiny reminder for the enemy that Caesar is understanding and generous.’ He was, to an extent, but the more he appeared so to Pompey’s army, the better the chance of a rebellion among the enemy legions and officers.

  ‘Vatinius,’ Caesar called to an officer on the next platform along.

  ‘General?’ called the legate of the Fourteenth.

  ‘I need to do some planning. See if you can arrange a conference with Pompey or his officers, will you?’

  Vatinius smiled. ‘My pleasure, General.’

  Caesar nodded a goodbye to Fronto and descended, making for his command tent that was now in place some way to the north and would already be fully furnished.

  ‘Who is the ranking officer over there?’ Vatinius bellowed. His calls had to be loud enough to cross the river and be heard well, and so were equally clear to Fronto and the others, two observation platforms along.

  A tribune emerged from a small group of officers and men gathered around a huge stack of timber that was being unloaded from a cart, and strode towards the water. The broad stripe on his tunic identified him as the senior tribune of a legion, second only to a legate.

  ‘That would be me, sir. Regulus, senior tribune of the First.’

  ‘What say you to an exchange of envoys, Regulus?’ Vatinius said jovially.

  ‘Any such request will have to be passed to the general,’ the tribune replied with a sigh. ‘And I do not think it likely he will agree just now.’

  ‘Come on, man,’ Vatinius shouted. ‘Envoys are always permissible, and guaranteed safety. Even fugitive slaves and pirates are allowed to send envoys. Exchange of envoys is always sensible. Especially when the objective is to prevent citizens killing one another.’

  There was a thoughtful silence at that, for every man held those thoughts close to his heart.

  ‘Will you agree to an exchange of envoys?’ Vatinius pressed. ‘Myself acting on behalf of Caesar and you speaking as the ranking officer there?’

  Regulus opened his mouth, but a new voice cut in, and men parted like waves before a trireme prow. A hawk-faced man in immaculate uniform with a general’s ribbon knotted around his midriff strode forth from the enemy between the parting lines of men.

  ‘I am the ranking officer here, now. Get back to your legion, Regulus.’

  The tribune, chastened, stepped back as the senior Pompeian officer came to a halt and placed balled fists upon his hips. ‘Aulus Varro, of the general’s staff. It is an honour to meet you again, Legate Vatinius. And a cause of dismay that this time it should be under arms rather than ample voiced and loaded with records.’

  Vatinius laughed aloud. ‘Varro, by the gods. I never imagined you returning to the field. Why are you not arguing cases in the basilicas of Rome?’

  ‘The same reason as you, Vatinius. Sadly Rome has fractured and we all must leap to a side for survival lest we disappear down the crevasse.’

  Fronto leaned forwards. ‘Some of us, Varro, should have taken the hint when Caesar pardoned us in Hispania and not run east to take up another command.’ T
hough he’d been at Massilia at the time, it was common knowledge that Varro had commanded half of Hispania on behalf of Pompey and had been pardoned upon his capitulation.

  The humour sucked out of the air, Varro sighed as he addressed Vatinius once more. ‘Apologies, old friend. Pompey is reluctant to arrange a conference. He believes that should he show his face in person some Caesarian hopeful will put a javelin in it even if ordered not to. But perhaps even great decisions do not require the commander to be present. You say you can speak for Caesar? Then I shall speak for Pompey. Of course, anything I agree to would have to be ratified by the general.’

  ‘Of course. The same holds for me.’

  ‘Then we should meet. Tonight is too late – we are all tired, and both armies are engaged in the slinging of turf and the slinging of insults – but tomorrow morning? A small party of senior officers from each army, with an escort of, say, a dozen guards? We meet on the bridge?’

  Vatinius nodded. ‘On the bridge. But at the second hour of day. I am getting old, and I like to break my fast in a leisurely manner.’

  Varro laughed. ‘If I remember rightly you did that when you were young, too!’

  ‘Til the morrow.’

  ‘The morrow.’

  Both men turned and moved away from the river and, entertainment over, the legions returned to their back-breaking work. Fronto beckoned to the other two on his platform and they descended, passing the lookouts who had been waiting patiently for the officers to leave so that they could take up their posts. Hurrying across to Vatinius, Fronto beckoned to his fellow legate.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know Varro?’ Fronto asked. ‘And he’s a reasonable man?’

  Vatinius nodded with a smile. ‘Best advocate I’ve ever faced in court. Could talk you in a spiral if he wished it. Makes me look like an infant. But he is noble and his heart is most definitely in the right place. He will do whatever he can to de-escalate the matter. In fact I would wager he is now bound for Pompey’s tent to try and talk sense into the man. If anyone can, it’s Varro.’