Fronto reached round and touched his arm, wincing. The movements of the horse seemed to shake the wound open every few heartbeats, or at least that was how it felt. The medicus had assured him that it would begin to knit and heal in no time and that the cut was so clean and straight that there would be hardly a mark in the end, but to Fronto it still felt like an open chasm in his flesh.
Bucephalus walked steadily, once more alongside Galronus’ horse at the head of the column. The general had suggested, rather blatantly, that Fronto might want to stay back with the officers. No one had reprimanded him for being part of the attack across the log bridge, but he could feel the disapproval radiating from the other officers, and when the others had been out of earshot briefly, Cassius had called him a ‘bloody fool’. That at least had made him grin as he declined the offer of safety and rode to the van.
He wasn’t grinning now, and the reason was only partially the pain in his bicep.
The rest was the Aegyptian army that lay ahead.
Reports of the defensive strength of their position had not been exaggerated. The fort they occupied would be a tough proposition for any army. Clearly this had once been a garrisoned fortress, though long since out of use, its thick mudbrick walls now cracked and ancient yet still strong. It would take a determined legionary to climb them, especially under a hail of missiles. The entire place was on a slight rise by the river, a huge, square monstrosity. To the south apparently lay a wide marsh that denied access for the Roman army. To the north, facing the approaching legions, Fronto could see a steep escarpment rising from the flat earth of the delta before even the walls began. To the west lay a gentle slope that constituted the most reasonable approach, yet was the strongest fortified. And to the east lay the river, with just a narrow strip of land separating fortress from water.
Clearly, the northern approach would be an insane proposal, and the southern marshes impossible for sufficient numbers. That left both east and west, each of which had been discussed by the officers on their approach. The west would be the most straightforward, but the best defended. To the east stood a dock on the river and a gate in the wall for access from the waterside. That had been an attractive option.
Until now.
He sucked his teeth and looked the scout in the eye. The man’s gaze did not falter.
‘How many?’
‘I counted eight, sir.’
Eight warships. Damn it.
‘And there’s no hope of taking them down?’
‘Not without ships of our own, sir. They’re anchored mid-stream. They’re bristling with men. I would guess that the fortress itself is not quite large enough for the royal army, and the excess have been pressed into secondary locations.’
Irritatingly dangerous ones, it would seem. For a moment, Fronto pondered how the enemy had managed to get ships here, when the Roman fleet couldn’t reach this far upriver without grounding on mud banks. Still, he had been told that the entire delta region was a criss-crossing and winding network of interconnected branches of the river, along with a few man made canals. Probably the ships had come via another branch. He sighed. Where they came from was irrelevant. The fact was that they sat untouchable out in the water, and their presence made the riverside approach far less favourable. Attacking along that narrow strip of land under a barrage from the walls above would be hard enough, but to do so while being pounded with missiles from eight ships out in the water too would be horrendous.
‘And this other fort? How defensive is that?’
The scout huffed. Fronto was asking for confirmation of things he’d already said in his initial report.
‘It’s an easier proposition than this one, sir. About the size of a vexillation camp for a single cohort. Mud brick walls, but with no natural defences. Houses maybe five hundred, with stabling.’
Fronto nodded. A second fortress, perhaps a quarter of a mile from the main one, off to the west, seemingly housing the cavalry, those men who had fled the last fight to return to the main force. The Caesarian army could attack from the west, but they would need to deal with the outlying cavalry fort first, which would give the enemy time to prepare and could at least slightly weaken the Roman force.
Sagging, he nodded to the scout and turned to Galronus. ‘I’m going to consult Caesar.’
Gesturing back north, Fronto turned his horse and rode back along the line of cavalry with the small scout unit, racing the rumour, spreading by word of mouth along the line, that the Aegyptian navy had come to the enemy’s aid. They reached the staff officers swiftly, and Caesar, Mithridates and the others pulled out to the side of the column to meet the riders.
‘What news?’ Caesar demanded. Fronto sat back and once again let the scout repeat his tidings, emphasising this time every bit of detail Fronto had drawn out of him. When he had finished, Caesar tapped his lip with a finger and turned to the prince of Pergamon.
‘A tough nut, Highness. No approach feels adequate.’
Mithridates nodded. ‘If the enemy are both prepared and spirited we will be forced to fight hard. I might humbly suggest that the only realistic advantage we can hope for is to inspire fear. We occupied a poor position by the previous river but the suddenness, unexpectedness and ferocity of our attack drove terror into enemy hearts and saw their resolve crumble. If that success could be repeated, then perhaps we might improve our chances.’
Caesar continued to tap his lip. ‘Quite. Ferocity and unexpectedness: a powerful combination. Let us keep them off guard and unprepared. It is afternoon now, and any assault we launch runs the risk of continuing into the hours of darkness. Let the men rest and relax. We shall make camp within sight of their walls, where they might brood over our numbers, strength and confidence. Let them spend the evening and the night worrying over what we might do.’
‘And what shall we do?’ Mithridates enquired.
‘At dawn, the centurions and your officers will have the entire army ready to move at a moment’s notice. We shall launch our attack immediately, and without pause to dissemble the camp or pack the tents. This fight will end on the morrow and we shall not worry about leaving an abandoned camp thereafter.’
‘But where do we attack?’ Fronto mused. ‘The riverside? Or do we take on the cavalry fort first and then the western slope? Or perhaps a division of forces?’
‘All of this we shall achieve,’ the consul said with an odd smile.
‘Caesar?’
At dawn the army will answer the call, each man having broken his fast quietly in his tent, unseen by the enemy. At the horn’s cadence, the army will advance at a fast march against the cavalry fort and overrun it.’
Cassius frowned. ‘Caesar, there cannot be more than half a thousand cavalry in the fort. Twice that if they pack tightly. It will not take an army of twenty thousand men to overwhelm it.’
‘Absolutely,’ smiled the general. ‘But the victory of such a huge force against such a minor one will be both swift and total. Let the enemy watch their external fort fall in mere heartbeats to an army that only moments earlier appeared to be abed. Imagine if you will the consternation and nerves this will spread among their number.’
Brutus smiled too now. ‘It will certainly be a shock.’
‘And we shall give them no time to rally. The very moment the cavalry fort falls, the army will divide. My lord prince, I propose a division of labour. Your force contains a number of cavalry and archers, as well as trained infantry. I suggest that your army marches upon the easier western slope, along with my cavalry, the Thirty Seventh and the depleted cohorts of the Twenty Seventh, where numbers will be crucial, and where both horse and bow might be of effect.’
Mithridates nodded. ‘And the Sixth, Consul?’
Fronto waited, tense, listening carefully.
‘The Sixth will assault the east, along the river side. It is a dangerous approach, but the strip of land is narrow and more suited to heavy infantry. Your assault,’ he added, turning to Fronto, ‘is considerably more difficult and destined almost certainly to fail. However, in pressing there you will force the enemy to divide their number. You should be able to draw sufficient defenders to the east to weaken the men facing us on the west, granting us adequate advantage to overcome them.’
‘That’s a bitter task, General,’ Fronto said, reservedly.
‘But an important one. It is a task I can only give to a veteran force with a history of such engagements. That describes both the Sixth and yourself, Fronto.’
Mithridates laughed. ‘You are a wily fox, son of Venus. Gods be praised I am not your enemy. It shall be as you say. Our army will tackle the western slopes upon the fall of the fort.’
Fronto tried not to feel put upon. He’d been assigned the shitty end of the sponge stick, and they all knew it, but the idea was sound, as was the reasoning of assigning the Sixth.
‘Good.’ The consul turned to the rest of the staff. ‘Fronto, Brutus can advise you on the most advantageous approach, given the enemy ships’ capabilities. Cassius will command the reserve, which we will keep out of missile shot of the walls and ships. I shall remain with the command and guide the battle as best I can. For now, have the men make camp and be certain that they are in good spirits. Let the Aegyptians see them drink wine, eat hearty and sing songs of battle.’
* * *
The night was sultry, with the heat of the day still evident and the waters of the delta providing humidity. The camp seethed with life, more resembling a legion in garrison during winter months than an army on active campaign. The atmosphere was positive, almost festive, even. The only men not relaxing were the pickets watching the enemy fortress.
Fronto strolled between the tents until he found the First Cohort. He’d not got to know many of the officers from the Sixth personally, as he’d done with the Tenth in the old days. He’d not felt the same connection with this likely temporary command, after all. Yet now, facing the brutal task assigned them, he was regretting it. In such times, it was important to know the men upon whom success or failure might hinge.
First he sought out the tribunes. The five junior ones were the usual chinless adolescents looking for a reputation to carry them into office in Rome. The senior tribune was a solid man, though. A career soldier looking to gain a position as a legate and therefore open to sound tactical thinking and a good link in the chain of command.
Having familiarised himself with the nominal commanders of the Sixth, he’d moved on to the senior centurion. Carfulenus he had fought alongside, of course, and had spoken to repeatedly since their arrival in Aegyptus, and yet he realised now that he still knew nothing about the man. Not even where he came from.
He found a soldier on guard at the centurion’s tent, and with only the briefest of introductions was admitted. Upon entry, Fronto immediately formed a positive opinion of the man. The tent was missing many of the home comforts senior centurions tended to gather, resembling much more an ordinary soldier’s accommodation, or Fronto’s own, of course.
Carfulenus sat on the edge of his cot, buffing his sword’s baldric and periodically taking a bite from the bread and sausage on the platter beside him. As Fronto entered, the centurion rose and saluted, placing his sword on the bed.
‘Sir.’
Fronto nodded a greeting and motioned for the man to sit.
‘You’re familiar with the plan for tomorrow?’
Carfulenus nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ He began to polish once more as he sat, and Fronto frowned.
‘Don’t you have a man to do that?’
‘Somewhere,’ the centurion smiled. ‘One of the lads is always offering, but I’m from a family of modest means, sir. I’m not used to having people to perform such simple tasks. Besides, when you do it yourself, you know it’s done right.’
Fronto grinned. He liked the man more with every encounter.
‘I’m not worried about the cavalry fort,’ the legate said, ‘but the riverbank attack is going to be nasty, and I intend to keep as many men alive as possible. We’ve only got to draw their attention and keep them busy. Caesar and the prince will storm the camp then. Most of the Sixth will make an assault on the eastern river gate and wall and form a roof of shields. I want the First Cohort forming a wall against the ships, though. We have to hold off any barrage as much as possible.’
‘That’s not going to be easy, sir. Even disregarding arrows, there will be artillery.’
‘Yes, I’ve been pondering that. This is why I want to keep the units on separate assignment. I want a new signal. Distribute spare whistles among your men. I want a whistle every ten or fifteen paces along the bank. The moment an artillery bolt or rock comes your way, I want a signal given, and the entire unit can open up a passage, stepping out of the way of the missile. It’s far from foolproof, but it will save men. Can you do that?’
Carfulenus nodded. ‘We’ll need to take extra whistles from the Thirty Seventh, but it can be done.’
‘Good.’ Fronto leaned back. ‘Keep your men alert and alive, Centurion. And keep an eye and an ear on me. The situation tomorrow is going to be very changeable and fluid, and I need every man ready to react at a moment’s notice.’
Again Carfulenus nodded, and Fronto grinned. ‘Now let me introduce you to a habit I learned from the tribes of Hispania. A fortifying of the spirits for coming war.’ With a grin, he produced a small jar of wine.
Carfulenus smiled.
* * *
Fronto moved between the tents once more, watching the glow of dawn rapidly blossoming and driving back the indigo gloom. Scratching himself absently, he adjusted his helmet strap and rolled his shoulders. This was it.
Every tent flap displayed a collection of eager faces, fed and watered and battle-ready, waiting for the call.
He reached the camp gate just as the other staff officers drifted in. Caesar sat astride his white horse, red cloak bundled up ready to let loose. No point in alerting any watchful Aegyptian too soon. In moments they were ready.
‘Every man knows his place?’ the consul asked quietly.
Cassius nodded. ‘All is set, Caesar.’
‘Then let us begin. Jove and Mars watch over us.’
The gathered officers made votive motions to the sky and then finally Caesar turned to the nearest signaller, who held the general’s red and gold “Taurus” vexillum. ‘Give the signal.’
The flag waved once and Fronto watched the massive camp, impressed as always with the efficiency of the legions. The flag signal was picked up by others and then, as men began to pile from their tents ready for war, whistles started to blow. In heartbeats columns of legionaries were streaming between the tents and past the officers out into the open ground before the gate, units of the army of Pergamon keeping pace.
As soon as the First Cohort was assembled, a cornu hoomed and there was a clattering of swords on shield edges. The First Cohort of the Thirty Seventh began to jog. They had gone little more than a hundred paces when a light unit of speedy Aeolian spearmen caught up and fell in on their flank. Behind them two more cohorts from the Twenty Seventh formed and ran, with Mithridates’ heavy infantry alongside and following on. Fronto turned to the other staff officers as the entire army moved out.
‘See you either in Ptolemy’s tent or in Elysium, gentlemen.’
Similar sentiments were shared by the others as Fronto jogged off to join the Sixth, who were almost formed up. A signifer held the reins of Bucephalus close to the knot of six tribunes, all of whom were mounted ready.
‘Let’s go.’
The ranks of the Sixth moved off in columns and Fronto mounted, the officers riding forward. As they moved, Fronto noted the activity that burst into life all across the landscape. While the Roman force moved at speed for the cavalry camp, accompanied by the vast army of the prince of Pergamon, a rumble like thunder from both sides announced the presence of the Roman and Aeolian horse. The Gallic and German cavalry raced along the left flank, with Galronus briefly visible at its head. The cavalry could do little in actually assaulting the fort, but their presence on the periphery to harry any stray enemies was a given.
The enemy were aware of the danger, now. Men flooded the walls of the royal fortress, preparing to fight off the massive army, peering into the growing light at this alarming and unexpectedly swift assault. It was only as it became clear that the Caesarian force was moving at a tangent, not aiming for the fortress, that their true goal became clear. Desperate horns honked from the fortress, sending warnings to the cavalry camp. In response, panicked signals arose from there. A gate opened as someone made the decision to flee to the safety of the main camp, but no horses emerged as a senior officer commanded the gate shut once more. Even had there been room for them in the main fortress, they would be unlikely to make it without meeting Galronus’ howling Germans and the horsemen of Mithridates first.
Fronto nodded to the other officers and the seven of them began to move aside, riding to the periphery of the Roman force. The situation would require close attention when they moved on to the main fortress, but the centurions could handle this initial attack without great difficulty. As such, the Sixth’s officers sat on the highest rise they could find with a small group of musicians, standard bearers and dispatch riders.
They observed from their vantage point. Just as some fool in the cavalry fort had made to open the gate and flee, before being overridden, another fool in the main fortress opened their west gate and a unit of light swordsmen began to emerge, rushing to the aid of the cavalry until desperate calls pulled them back inside and the gate was shut once more.
Ganymedes was not fool enough to risk his security to save the cavalry. They had to be sacrificed. Fronto approved of the sense of it, despite the loss of men, as he watched the Caesarian army flood up to the mudbrick walls of the smaller fort. No one was going to be able to prevent this. Within moments of reaching the walls, legionaries and provincial Asian units were pouring over the ramparts and into the fort. The Aegyptian cavalry put on a brave show, dismounted and using their longer swords and spears to try and hold back the tide, but even as Fronto watched, he could see the light of Aegyptian defiance winking out. As more and more Caesarian units poured into the fort, hacking and stabbing at their enemy, all without the howls of victory, just an eerie professional silence punctuated by orders or bellowed oaths, finally the enemy broke.
The gate that had been opened briefly was now swung back once more, and this time riders poured from it in desperation, pelting for the safety of the massive fortress on the riverside bluff. Perhaps thirty riders of the hundreds stationed therein made it out of the gate before the attacking infantry closed in and blocked it, penning their enemies while they butchered the trapped men.
Those thirty put heels to flanks and raced with every iota of speed they could manage for safety. It was clear from the start that few would make it. Galronus had been ready for them to break, and as they emerged and charged eastwards, the Caesarian cavalry fell on them without mercy. A dozen Aegyptians died within bowshot of their former fort, others being brought down one after another by the pursuing Gauls and Germans. Fronto counted six that escaped the cavalry alae, for Galronus was not foolish enough to follow them within arrow shot of the enemy fortress.
It was over in the blink of an eye. In less time than it took to dress for battle, the cavalry fort had fallen. The Caesarian forces, with precious few casualties, finished off the enemy, administering mercy kills to critically wounded allies, and swift executions to the remaining enemies, who’d hardly had the opportunity to surrender anyway.
A shrill blast signalled the end of the assault and immediately new signals were being given. Barely had the last kill been made before the army was on the move once more. Fronto took a deep breath.
‘This is it.’
‘Give the order, sir,’ his senior tribune murmured, watching as the men of the Sixth flooded back out of the smaller fort’s north and east gates, forming on the move to save both time and momentum, guided by the shouts and whistles of their centurions and the staves of their optios.
‘This is where it gets dangerous,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s move out.’
Following Fronto, the tribunes and the various signallers and riders trotted down the low slope and moved to intercept their troops before they closed on the enemy fortress. Fronto gave one last glance back at the second force, still assembling and rushing for the western slope of the fortress in the wake of the fleeing horsemen. Caesar, Cassius, Brutus, Salvius and the others would all be over there, all in the company of Mithridates of Pergamon, as they led the majority of the army at that accessible but well defended slope.
‘Double time,’ Fronto said. ‘We need to get to the eastern ramparts quickly enough to pull men away from the western slope.’ In response, the senior tribune issued orders to the signallers, and cornua blared out the sequence.
The Sixth suddenly burst into speed, a swift jog from the steady march, centurions’ whistles urging them on. Fronto looked ahead, his heart beginning to pound. He could see the strip of shore now. There was perhaps room for ten men to move and act abreast between the water and the ramparts of the fortress. A terrible area to be trapped in. He could also see the Aegyptian ships now, anchored fifty paces out into the river, unreachable. Briefly, he contemplated sending men into the water to take the ships, but decided that it would be futile and a terrible waste of men. He had to stick to the plan and pray they could pull this off with as few casualties as possible.
‘To your units,’ he said to the others. ‘But keep an eye on me.’
As the force pounded along the northern side of the fort towards the river, the officers among the units went to work, acting on Fronto’s instructions, imparted in detail the evening before and hammered out with the officers.
The First Cohort filtered inwards, a four-man column becoming only three men wide. Similarly the eight-man column of legionaries from the other cohorts dropped to being six wide. At another signal, as they closed on the fortress, the units formed a loose testudo, tight enough to be protective but still loose enough to allow for a double time jog. Their timing was perfect, and the shields slammed into place above, just as arrows, darts, bullets and rocks began to hurtle out from the fortress walls. Here and there a man fell, but the bulk of the unit held steady as they passed from the northern rampart with the difficult escarpment, and into the narrow riverside access.
As they rounded that corner, the legion began to shift once more at yet another signal. While the bulk continued with a roof of shields, hurtling along under the walls, the First Cohort rearranged themselves. The leftmost line, along the shore, dropped their shields back to the side and hunched behind them as they jogged. The middle line and inner line kept theirs raised.
Moments later the ships began to loose their barrage. Arrows and darts thudded into shields. The first artillery shot was a disaster, the units still moving and unprepared to deal with it. A stone the size of a man’s head ploughed into the shield wall, obliterating the front two legionaries and maiming the pair behind them, even crippling the two in the third line. A new signal picked the speed up once more and now the men were running, shields only loosely covering them. Getting into place was the critical thing now.
Fronto watched, nervous, from his vantage point a few hundred paces away. He almost cheered with relief when the men reached the position of the river gate and stopped. At least stationary they could better protect themselves from the incoming storm of missiles.
The men of the Sixth began to pound at the gate and walls, and Fronto watched a battering ram being manhandled into the throng, passed forwards under the roof of shields towards the gate where it could be employed. He chewed his lip. The chances of the gate falling were minimal. The enemy leaders were astute and would almost certainly have bolstered and blockaded the gate inside against just such an eventuality. But the fact was that they weren’t here with the expectation of breaking in. They were to provide sufficient threat to drag enemy troops away from the real battle.
Finally fully in position, all the men fell silent, no more standard signals blaring out for fear of interrupting the all-important warnings. Then it began. Three blasts in sharp succession from somewhere near the northern end of the stretch, and the men around that whistle threw themselves left and right out of the way. The bolt that had thudded free of the shipboard ballista passed between the men and slammed into the mudbrick wall.
It was going to work.
Of course, that would only save some of them. Even as the first missile failed, another set of blasts rang out, and then another, as again and again the naval artillery loosed at the packed men on the bank. With the third shot, soldiers failed to get out of the way in time, and screaming ensued as men were pulverised. At the same time all manner of missiles, both forged and scavenged, were dropped from the walls and archers loosed in continual volleys from the ships. In the first fifty heartbeats few shields remained untouched, most displaying up to ten protruding arrow shafts. Some were pinned to men’s arms or torsos, and rocks occasionally dropped between shields, crippling the soldiers beneath.
The gates were now being pounded with the tree-trunk ram in a steady rhythm, and soldiers were busy trying to mine a way into the ancient mud bricks, loosening them and pulling them away in the hope of forcing a hole in the wall. They would not live long enough to do so. Even as Fronto watched, the attrition rate was appalling. He couldn’t imagine how bad it would have been, had he and his officers not taken what steps they could to minimize the damage.
This had damned well better be worth it.
His gaze slid up to the ramparts. Certainly the walls were thicker with men than they had been when he’d first looked, which suggested they had drawn defenders this way. The sun was now putting in a full appearance, and the mauve glow that had accompanied the fighting so far gradually slid into azure, becoming brighter and brighter.
Fronto turned his gaze upon the far side of the massive fortress, trying to identify what was happening over there, and as he did so something struck him. He paused, brow furrowed. With the increase in light his sight was becoming clearer and clearer. Was it possible?
His command position was on a slight rise for the added field of vision, but it was also a little too close to the ramparts to see much of the interior of the fort despite its slanted angle. He thought…
In a heartbeat, to the surprise of the signallers and couriers around him, he turned and raced his horse north, away from the fortress. Finding a spot several hundred paces further away with a low rise, he trotted up it, turned and shaded his eyes.
A smile rose to his lips.
There was a chance. The enemy had given them a chance. But who should take it? Not Fronto. He was too old for that sort of thing. And clearly not the tribunes. Carfulenus. He seemed solid, and was clearly used to leading them. It had to be him.
Grinning now, he gestured to his companions as he cantered back towards the fight. At the beckoning finger, a courier pulled in beside him.
‘Sir?’
‘Ride into that nightmare and find Centurion Carfulenus. Tell him that the south fortress wall is clear. Tell him to take a few centuries into the marsh quickly and seize that south gate.’
The man frowned, and Fronto pointed at the fortress. ‘They’ve pulled so many men forward to hold against Mithridates and to batter us that they’ve left hardly anyone on the south wall. A few centuries could get through the swamp and take that wall, and once they’re in, the rest will fall. Go, man.’
As the courier raced off, Fronto took a deep breath. There was a chance. Carfulenus would have to get to that gate and assault it before the enemy realised he was doing it, but if he could take that wall, they could secure it for others. The enemy would have to pull more men south to stop him, and that would give both the legions and the Aeolians the chance of breaking in.
He looked at the rapidly dwindling force on the riverbank, being mercilessly pounded with missiles. The battle could be won or lost in the next few moments.