Had the Aegyptians been more organised, Fronto pondered tensely, they might well have overrun the defence of the crossroads in mere moments. With little more than a hundred legionaries covering each road, and four or five times as many natives coming at them, had they concerted their attack and hit Fronto’s force at the same time, they might well have pushed them back sufficiently to gain a fatal advantage.
As it was, the swordsmen came on slowly and carefully, while the spearmen ran at speed. Fronto sized them up on their approach in the little time he had. The swordsmen were heavy infantry, equipped in an archaic-looking Greek manner, but at a level comparable with the legionaries and with clear Roman influence in the shield design. Their general look suggested they were a native Aegyptian unit, probably of Alexandrians. As such, they were being very careful, not throwing away their lives, knowing their terrain and their enemy. The spearmen, on the other hand, had an entirely different colouring and a style that Fronto, even after only a short time in Aegyptus, could clearly see was not native. Probably Persian, he thought. Mercenaries. Their enthusiasm would be born of the belief that plunder and reward would be theirs for success, unlike the natives who would be ordinary citizens who fought for their king and their duty to the country.
As such, Fronto knew how to take advantage. With the difference between the two units he could take his time and attend to each problem with care. He turned to the man leading the defence of the northern road.
‘They’re being too cautious for their own good, Centurion. Give them the sword and shield fanfare. Put the wind up them.’
The officer grinned and turned, shouting to his men. In moments they began to rhythmically bash their swords against their shield edges, hammering out a beat. The chant of ‘Ro – ma Vic – trix’ that accompanied it had made many an enemy falter over the years, and it had the desired effect now. The swordsmen slowed further, some looking at their companions nervously.
Leaving them to it, Fronto moved back to the western street. The spearmen would be on them in perhaps ten heartbeats.
‘Shields angled up and back,’ he shouted. ‘Deflect the blows then give them Hades on a stick.’
A roar echoed across the street as the men settled for the impact, legs braced, one back and planted firm, the other pressed against the inside of the shield. The second and third rows stood ready, pila raised.
With howls of fury, the mercenary spearmen launched themselves at the human barricade. As the front rows collided, the rear Persians stumbled to a halt and cast their spears up and over, hoping to take the rear ranks of the Roman defence, though few found a mark, most overshooting by a distance.
The men of the Roman front line took the hit well. The sheer momentum caused a ripple that threatened to knock the legionaries back, but they held. Persian spears struck the Roman shields and a few penetrated, lodging in the wood and making activity difficult for both attacker and defender. Some punched through the linden boards and slammed into the men behind, but such successes were few. Most of the enemy spears simply struck the shields that had been carefully angled, tearing through the painted fabric surface and skittering upwards to fly up over the top, past the hunched defenders. A few lucky strikes caught men in the second line, but most simply flailed off up into the air.
As the line rippled and bowed without breaking, injured men simply went down, replaced by the man behind in a heartbeat, with far too little room and time to pull the wounded to the rear. The second and third line began to slam their pila forward. They were primarily a throwing weapon and far from ideal as a spear, the tip too readily bending, but the men using them were good, and the effect was impressive regardless.
Iron points slammed into torsos, arms, necks and faces, and where they bent or broke on impact, the legionaries simply leaned a little further forwards and used the broken points to slam into the enemy again and again.
The Persians howled defiance and anger, but as they threw themselves with renewed vigour against the Roman line it was clear to Fronto that their rate of attrition was enormous. They were slowly eroding the Roman defence, but they were losing too many men doing it, white-clad corpses piling up before a Roman line that continually reformed as men fell.
Satisfied, Fronto ducked back to his right just in time to see the native swordsmen give a roar and burst into a charge. Once more he thanked Fortuna for their lack of coherent organisation. Had they timed this to join with the spear attack, the combined pressure might well have pushed the Romans back. Instead, the centurion in charge there simply called out his command and set his men to work.
The front ranks of enemy infantry ran at what appeared to be a Roman shieldwall, but in the moments before the lines met, everything changed at a centurion’s whistle. Every other man along the line dropped back into a space left for them behind their companions. The enemy struck the now-intermittent line and the attack faltered instantly. Aegyptians hit the remaining men hard, but the legionaries were well-braced, a man directly behind them now, pushing them forward in support. As those natives hit the Romans, the legionaries all rolled their shields to the left, turning sharply, using the enemy’s own momentum to send them yelling straight past and into the heart of the Roman lines where they were simply dispatched by dozens of brandished blades.
The momentum having been stolen from the enemy charge, the front line reformed once more and presented a solid wall to the enemy. The Aegyptians now began to fight hard, swords coming down and lancing out as best they could in the press, trying to overcome the Roman shield wall as the legionaries went to work, jabbing out with their gladii in the narrow cracks they created between shields.
Men began to die in droves, a few legionaries falling here and there, with a scream to be replaced by the next man in line, but the bulk of the dying went to the Aegyptians. Again, attrition would win the day. Satisfied that both sides would hold and they would survive the fight, Fronto stepped back out of the press and watched from sufficient distance to keep himself aware of all events.
Finding a set of steps to a house’s upper door, he climbed the first few to get a better angle of vision. It was as he was congratulating himself on their success that he saw disaster looming.
A fresh force of men had appeared along that western street, and would be able to engage far too soon for comfort. More native infantry, they were swordsman like those along the northern road. Spotting the Roman line and the fighting, an enemy officer began bellowing orders and the reinforcements started to jog down the street.
Fronto chewed his lip, tense. He had to do something. If they hit his western blockade in the immediate aftermath of the spearmen, there was a good chance they would overrun the legionaries. He would have to pull men from the north to the west to help, but doing so would endanger the north.
He needed Aemilianus’ men from the roofs. Here and there he could see them at the upper parapets, hurling down tiles and whatever they could find, harrying the enemy, but they would be required down here for much better effect. He couldn’t see the centurion’s crest up there anywhere, so he waved at them in general and bellowed for them to come back down.
‘Sir!’
He turned at the shout and spotted one of the two men he’d left on watch waving at him and pointing east along the street. With plunging spirits he glanced that way, and could now see distant figures beginning to climb over and dismantle the makeshift rampart that had blocked the street there.
Then he frowned and squinted, shading his eyes.
His creased brow unfolded as his face opened into a grin.
They were Roman.
Better still, they were not men of the Sixth, men who had landed further along, but wore the uniforms of the Twenty Seventh. They were the men from the Pharos fort. Even as he breathed with relief, he spotted a figure in a white tunic, bronze cuirass and red cloak, sword circling as he urged the men on, grey hair cut short and aquiline features clear.
Caesar had arrived.
He turned back to the crossroads.
‘The consul is here, lads. The Twenty Seventh are coming!’
The news had the desired effect and in moments the legionaries were roaring with fresh incentive, hacking and jabbing at the enemy. Fronto watched with satisfaction as the enemy began to quail under the increased pressure, and he even had to bellow orders for the centurions to restrain their men as the blockades began to push forwards.
Heaving in breaths of warm, salty air, Fronto removed his helmet and wiped a small lake of sweat from his brow, shaking his head with an effect like a dog shaking after a dip. Jamming the helmet beneath his arm, he turned and watched the general leading his men down the street. Even as they passed some side road, another landing force of the Twenty Seventh joined them, cheering, and the growing force moved towards the crossroads.
Their approach had clearly now been noted by the enemy. The already engaged units fought on, committed as they were, but that fresh group of swordsmen had now halted further up the street and were organising into a shield wall.
The consul of Rome strode into the crossroads like a conqueror, nodding his greeting to Fronto.
‘Legate. You have contained things well here. Is this the current front line?’
Fronto made ‘sort of’ motions with his hand. ‘In a way, General. The cavalry are operating somewhere ahead in the open ground. I think we were the westernmost landing force, so the rest will be behind you.’
Caesar nodded again. ‘Many have already joined us. We have now cleared the island from the south and east. The northern coast is still held by the natives, though I sent a secondary force that way, clearing the streets as they went, and the enemy should be pinned down by the artillery barrage of the fleet. I have heard the sounds of fighting as we came west, so they seem to be enjoying reasonable success.’
We’re winning, then.’
Caesar smiled. ‘Thus far the gods favour us, Fronto. Our great challenge will be at the far end, when we reach the Heptastadion. There lies a fortress we must overcome to control the island, and cavalry will, of course, be of no benefit there.’
‘We can burn that bridge when we come to it, Caesar.’
‘Quite. Let us move on.’ The general turned to the growing force behind him. ‘Gallus, take your men and fall in with Fronto here. Take that road and clear the island westwards. I shall take the rest north and clear from there, linking up with my secondary force.’
He nodded at Fronto. ‘We shall meet at the Heptastadion.’
Fronto saluted and looked about him as his force suddenly increased by huge numbers, with the additional soldiers from the Twenty Seventh Caesar had sent his way. Moreover, Aemilianus and his men were now descending from the rooftops.
‘Sir,’ Aemilianus said as he hurried over from a doorway.
‘Centurion.’
‘The rooftops are largely clear from here. There are small groups we spotted here and there but the bulk had been committed near the coast to prevent our advance, and the other landing craft seem to have done the same as us, clearing them out. Anyone left nearby in the upper levels are already fleeing west to stay safely behind enemy lines. The last thing they want is to be cut off by us and unable to return to their own.’
Fronto smiled. ‘Sounds like they’re in retreat, then?’
‘That’s how it looks sir. What are your orders?’
Fronto turned. Caesar had taken his two centuries from the northern street and was already committing extra men, pushing the near-obliterated enemy swordsmen back along the thoroughfare. Even as Fronto watched, the Aegyptians began to break, many of their number turning and running, fleeing along the dusty flagstones to the safety of their own men.
Looking back along the street behind him at the forces now dividing and peeling off to follow either Caesar or Fronto, he tried to estimate numbers. If he was right, he would have the better part of a thousand men now. What had looked like a dangerous and foolhardy foray into enemy held territory when they had first reached the crossroads now looked like a reasonable invasion force.
A familiar voice drew his attention, and he turned with a contrary mix of satisfaction and disappointment to see Salvius Cursor pushing his way through the soldiers towards him, Centurion Carfulenus close on his heel. It was no surprise to note that the tribune was already spattered with gore, what appeared to be a tattered shred of human being hanging from the bronze hooks of his chain shirt.
‘Fronto.’
‘Salvius. You met resistance then.’
‘Briefly,’ snorted the tribune. ‘Orders?’
‘Keep doing what you’re doing. That way,’ he added, pointing west.
The spearmen were more or less lost now, a few men still struggling on, a score of them already backing away with that careful, measured gait of the failed mercenary, uncertain of the reception they would receive from their own side upon retreat, but aware that to stay meant death. They backed up the street slowly, spears still levelled in case the Romans suddenly broke and decided to follow them.
‘We can take them before they pass their lines,’ Salvius said, peering ahead.
Fronto shook his head. ‘Let them carry their failure and panic back among the enemy. We need to win the island, but I’d be happy if we didn’t have to fight every last man to do it.’
Salvius saluted, though Fronto could see disapproval hovering in the man’s eyes.
‘We are not Morta of the Fates, Tribune. We do not have to personally bring death to the world. Let them run. It’ll save us work.’
With another salute, Salvius hurried over to the legionaries as they drew themselves together into units, the last spearmen already down. Fronto wandered over, glancing ahead at the line of organised infantry awaiting them to the west. That would be a hard fight, but he had the suspicion that it represented the main force remaining against them here. Beyond that, not far away, Galronus and his cavalry should be at work… hopefully. A quick glance at his men told him that pila would be few and far between. This would have to be straight infantry work, then.
‘Those centuries with more than one in five wounded drop back. You are now the reserve. I want the freshest men in front. We’re going to do this the old fashioned way. Single time, then march and a half at eighty paces. Double pace at fifty, and charge at twenty five. Push forwards with every possible step, holding the line. I want their shield wall broken. Centurions, put your bruisers in the front line and keep your eye on me for each signal.’
There was a chorus of affirmatives, and as that died away they could hear the distinctive sounds of Caesar’s force engaging somewhere a street or two to the north.
‘Last thing: we need to make sure we clear the area. To the north, our friends are at work, but every southern street or alley we pass I want a small unit dispatched to make sure it’s clear, then hurrying to catch up. Centurions’ discretion for the dispatch of those units. Good. All set, so let’s go.’
As those units who had fought down the spear men dropped back, joining up with the more battered units that had reached them from the east, the freshest centuries settled into the street, shields up and swords out and ready, the largest and most powerful men shuffled into the front line.
‘Ready…’ Fronto called. ‘March.’
A score of whistles carried his orders to the men as every centurion began to move. The entire force stomped along the western street with the crunch of hobnailed boots landing perfectly in time. Fronto fell in beside a centurion some twelve rows from the front, and could just see Salvius Cursor about half way forward at the other side of the street, staying back just far enough to be respectable for an officer, but close enough to the action that he was almost guaranteed a chance to become involved. Fronto might have been tempted to upbraid him for that, but the simple truth was that a few years ago, he had been doing much the same.
The front line was eleven men wide, covering the width of the street, a solid wall of muscle and iron, crunching at the enemy. Fronto craned his neck to look over the men in front, an action not as difficult as it might sound, with every soldier hunching behind his shield as they stomped forwards.
They reached an estimate of eighty paces faster than he’d expected, and he cleared his throat. ‘Pace and a half,’ he roared, a chorus of twin blasts on whistles echoing his order. The men broke into that odd half-jog in perfect unison at the rhythmic calls of their centurions and optios, a pace that ate distance rapidly, yet with little exertion.
Fifty paces came quickly, then, the details of the enemy shield wall coalescing in the heat haze. They were solid and well-equipped, confident-looking. Their skin tone was especially dark, yet their equipment spoke of that strangely Greek citizen-soldier that was the mainstay of the Aegyptian force, and Fronto surmised that they were probably from somewhere far up the Nilus, deep into the land of Aegyptus. If that was true, then they were probably still unfamiliar with Rome, their focus traditionally on the desert peoples in the south.
‘Double pace,’ he bellowed, now that they were close enough the exertion would not rob his force of too much fighting strength. Three whistle blasts from every officer picked up the pace to a fast march, and Fronto was satisfied, peering ahead, that the enemy were starting to feel nervous. The line of native infantry rippled with the first faint tremor of worry. Eyes still on them, he counted to ten and then shouted once again.
‘Charge.’
He had to hand it to the enemy, or at least to their officers and the level of control they maintained. That ripple of nerves became more pronounced at the sudden burst of activity, and there was a tremor along the line that Fronto recognised. They had almost broken and run, but calls and threats from their commanders seemed to have countered the worst of the nerves. Instead, the wavering stopped, and the enemy dropped a little, hunching behind their shields and bracing.
The Romans had almost broken the enemy without a blow, but at least they were nervous. It wouldn’t take much, now.
As the legionaries broke into a run, shields held out ready to barge, swords held low at the waist, subsequent lines holding them up out of the way to prevent injuring a comrade, Fronto found himself swept along with the tide.
The men of the Sixth and the Twenty Seventh hit the Aegyptian infantry with a roar, like a winter wave crashing over a breakwater. Across the width of the street, legionary shields smashed into the defenders, shield bosses positioned perfectly to fracture and damage.
Two lucky enemy blows landed during that initial collision, and Fronto saw a man drop, another crying out but remaining in the fight. The enemy had no chance to capitalise on their success, though. The Roman line simply ran through the enemy, breaking bones, trampling the unfortunate fallen beneath agonising iron hobnails and rough leather soles, stamping down hard both for purchase and additional damage.
The second line of Aegyptians tried to push forwards, meeting the charge, but many were already falling back under the pressure of their own broken line. Fronto lost sight of the action then, as the clash became a matter of tense butchery and screams. He briefly caught sight of Salvius Cursor, at least head and shoulders above the crowd, and wondered momentarily upon what the tribune was standing to raise him so, though he suspected it to be a pile of corpses.
For just a heartbeat or two, he found himself surprisingly close to the front, and a desperate, wild-eyed Aegyptian threw a panicked thrust at him. Almost negligently, Fronto knocked the blade aside with his own and brought it back across in a slash at neck height. He was rewarded with a gurgling noise as a blood slick poured from the man’s neck down onto his chain shirt, and he toppled, dying. Then suddenly Fronto was back among the lines again, and in the chaotic press he couldn’t determine whether he had been subtly shuffled back out of danger by his men or simply bypassed by them as they tried to push forwards. Whatever the case, the result was the same. He was once more several lines back from the action.
A horn blared somewhere ahead, and a strange shiver of panic seemed to echo across the fight. It was only as the enemy began to disengage that Fronto finally recognised that honking noise.
Gallic horns.
Galronus and his cavalry were close ahead, and the sudden realisation that part of Caesar’s force was behind them had finally broken the spirit of the Aegyptians. Indeed, as the honking of the Gallic horns repeated, becoming gradually louder as they closed, the fight broke up in a flurry, what was left of the enemy turning to flee. Legionaries did their best to take down Aegyptians as they ran, with varying degrees of success.
‘Hold your positions,’ Fronto bellowed as men began to lurch forwards in pursuit. Around the street, centurions blew their whistles and shouted orders, optios using their staves to jab and smack men who were too keen on the pursuit to listen. In moments the enemy were running away down the street, and the legionaries were re-forming into their units.
Fronto almost smiled at the aural tableau that followed. The din of desperate men running away, overlain with the hooming of Gallic horns, became the sound of ever-more-panicked men running back this way, overrun with those same horns and the noise of hooves pounding on stone.
‘Blow your whistles,’ Fronto yelled as the Aegyptians rounded a corner, once more heading back towards the soldiers. As the centurions did so, the Gallic cavalry appeared. Galronus was close to the front, swooping low over his horse’s neck and swinging out with a sword to take the head from a screaming native. The cavalry were on them, then, riding down those poor bastards who had fled one enemy only to run straight into another. Their hasty attempts to surrender were too late as the majority went down under churning hooves or to scything cavalry blades, others fleeing into the arms of waiting legionaries who offered no quarter.
Fronto had been just in time having the whistles blown. It was almost certainly only the sound of Roman officers’ whistles that had warned the cavalry of what lay around the corner, else they might not have had sufficient warning to stop in time and could have also ridden down lines of legionaries by mistake.
As the last few surviving enemy infantry raced up staircases or into narrow alleys or doorways to get away from this twin nightmare, Galronus slowed and trotted over to Fronto.
‘You took your time getting here,’ he grinned.
Fronto glared at him, and the Remi noble laughed. ‘Seasons turn unnoticed here, don’t they? I wonder who’s consul now.’
‘Shut up. We ran into difficulties.’
Galronus fell silent, but there was still an amused smile on his face.
‘Caesar’s force is clearing to the north. Have you seen them?’
Galronus shook his head. ‘Not yet, but there’s little resistance west from here now. The fleet has been battering the north coast with rocks and bolts enough that the enemy all fled south and ran straight into us in an area of fields and orchards. It was a mistake they won’t get to repeat.’
‘So not much for us to do now?’
Galronus gestured back along the street and to the bend they had rounded. ‘There are maybe three blocks and side streets that way until you get to where we landed. There, it’s nice and open and green from north coast to south. A sort of belt of fields between the houses and heppy-thingummy.’
‘Heptastadion,’ Fronto said absently. ‘And what’s that like?’
‘Some enterprising fellow in the past decided that the bridge heppy-thing needed defending. It’s more or less a little fort. Quite well-manned, since it had its own garrison, but it now has everyone who’s fallen back across the island too.’
‘A tough proposition?’
‘For a horse, certainly.’
Fronto glared daggers at him, and Galronus continued with a sigh. ‘Without siege equipment, or at least ladders, you’re going to find it a hard fight.’
‘Alright,’ Fronto murmured. ‘Let’s go have a look.’
As he issued commands to the centurions and Salvius Cursor, whom he placed in command, Galronus had a second horse brought up. By the time the legionaries were beginning to march west once more, making for the last area of resistance on the island and the end of the Heptastadion, Fronto was mounted and with Galronus. At the Remi’s command, the horsemen formed up and began to trot west, ahead of the infantry and picking up the pace as they went.
Sure enough, as Galronus had intimated, there was only a short stretch of the urban sprawl remaining before they emerged into open land. This fertile ground in a kingdom largely of desert had been made use of like all other cultivatable areas, given over to tightly packed farming with a few small orchards.
As they moved, they occasionally saw signs of remaining Aegyptian soldiers down the side alleys in one direction or the other, but as they rode, Fronto was aware of the infantry following on behind, dispatching small units along every street and alley to clear out lurking defenders. By the time they reached the Heptastadion what resistance remained would be negligible.
Feeling somewhat relieved, despite what lay ahead, Fronto and the cavalry rode out across the grassland and between the crops, trying not to destroy them. After all, not only were the farmers potentially not at fault in any way, but also the legion might be relying on those crops sometime soon.
He became aware of the increasing Roman control of the island as they moved through sizzling sunshine and lush fields. Further off to the north they could now see other units of infantry emerging from streets. Here and there, small groups of panicked natives ran for the southwest and their only hope of safety, and as they reached a rise in the open land, Fronto could see the shapes of Roman ships out to sea, just a few hundred paces from shore, where they continually released missiles at the land.
It seemed their plan had worked well. Now, if they could take the Heptastadion, their control of Pharos Island would be complete – no small coup considering the relative strengths of Arsinoë and Caesar’s forces.
Fronto’s first sight of the Heptastadion from this angle filled him with uncertainty.
The huge, straight breakwater marched from Pharos to the mainland, covering a distance of almost a mile, the arched bridge in it that the locals had used to sneak their ships through perhaps a third of the way along. He could make out little of the far end of the great work, for the heat haze made everything wavering and indistinct, but the near end had been fortified sometime in the past. What had once been a small residential area had been reworked with a view to defence. Houses in a horseshoe shape around the end of the great mole had been joined with ramparts, and their exterior windows blocked to form a fortress wall. Some of the houses had been raised to become towers of perhaps thirty feet in height. Only one gate had been left in the blank wall, and all other structures outside the ring of buildings had been torn down to make an open area around the fort.
It was surprisingly defensive for a structure cobbled together from old houses. Certainly it would cost the legion dearly to take the place, and take it they must if they wanted control of the island. If the enemy had sufficient archers on those walls and towers then many, many legionaries would die before they broke in.
Fronto’s gaze scanned the upper regions, trying to determine the level of defence, and it was then that he realised there were not the strong archers he’d expected. More than that, there seemed to be far fewer figures up there at all, fewer than Galronus’ comments had suggested they would find. The reason became clearer as he watched, more and more figures disappearing by the moment.
The defences were emptying.
Now, as they came closer, he could hear noises from atop the walls, and though it was too far away to make out words, the general tone was unmistakable:
Panic.
He turned, eyes narrowed against the sun. Roman legionaries were pouring from the streets of Pharos and out into the open land in speedy, triumphant units, following in the wake of the cavalry. Rome’s power was on display as they finalised their hold on the island, and the last defenders, who had probably been given the command to hold this fort at all costs, had succumbed to fear and abandoned their posts.
The fort was rapidly clearing of men. Glancing off to the south he could see those fleeing Aegyptians running along the Heptastadion for the city of Alexandria beyond, and the perceived safety of their young princess’ army. There were, in fact, so many people running now that some were pushed off the mole in the press and fell into the water. Others dived in on purpose, the better to get away from the approaching legion.
Fronto, a relieved smile crossing his face, gestured to a rider nearby. ‘Take the word to the legions. The fort is ours for the taking. Get the door open and chase the bastards back along the pier to their mothers.’
Grinning, he watched the last defenders of Pharos leaving, granting them control of the island.