‘Make your family proud.’
Those had been the last words Decimus Carfulenus had heard from his father’s lips when he had left Aquileia and signed on to join the legions. By a curse of timing he’d hit just the wrong moment for recruitment. A few years later the region would be seething with recruiters manning the legions Caesar would take into Gaul, and a few years earlier, recruiters were filling the ranks of Pompey’s legions for the war against the king of Pontus. But when Carfulenus had been of the right age, the only men who were being sought were burly frontline pioneers to ship around the republic for depleted units.
Decimus Carfulenus had known he was no such type. Oh, he had no fear of combat, and was content to do his part, else why join the army, but he knew his strength to be a little lacking, while his mind was as sharp as a gladius point. He knew with unpleasant irony that he was perfectly suited to commanding a force of men, but the low rank of his birth made that extraordinarily unlikely.
They were not a rich family. They had no lineage like officers from the rank of tribune upwards, who could trace their family line back to the noble patricians who had ousted the kings of Rome centuries ago. Little more than a hundred years since, the Carfuleni had been tribal. Members of the Veneti. Now they were members of the plebeian order. Romans given Latin rights.`
And so he had done the only thing he could. The only way he could use his natural talent for the military. He had signed on as a clerk, given his ability with letters and numbers. Within days he had found himself on a ship, whisked away across the sea to Hispania and the arms of the Ninth Legion, serving under Caesar. He’d had a grand total of four months of honing his craft there, before an accident of geography and timing had left him as the senior soldier among a unit of thirty, in a tiny outpost during the revolt of the Lusitani.
When the howling tribesmen came for them, the men had gone entirely to pieces, and it had only been Carfulenus’ calm demeanour and sensible brain that had managed to pull them together and beat a fighting retreat from there, back to the main body of the Ninth. Better still, they managed to pull out with all the supplies from the outpost intact and with the loss of only two men and three walking wounded.
When they had found the legion, the Ninth were already engaged against more of the natives, and it took the best part of a month to complete the suppression. In the aftermath, with the high number of casualties among the centurionate, as usual, Carfulenus had found himself nominated for a posting on the strength of his actions the previous month.
He had served as an optio for the next few years, learning the role well and quickly, achieving a level of popularity with others from both above and below. The first year of the war in Gaul had seen a stray blade remove much of his centurion’s neck, and Carfulenus had been promoted in the field, selecting his successor as optio.
He had served throughout the campaign well, though never quite attaining dizzy enough heights to reach the notice of the legate or the general. It had only been on the invaliding out of the Primus Pilus of the Sixth, last year, that Carfulenus had suddenly found himself offered a move to a new legion, in the most prestigious command a man could have below the rank of tribune.
He had been nominally just about old enough by then to legitimately hold a centurion’s vine stick.
A funny old career path.
He had made his family proud, though. Who knew, he might even be given a horse and land and raised to the equestrian order when he finally returned to Italia.
If he finally returned to Italia.
Because right now he was seriously questioning why he’d sought a military career at all, and not just gone into pottery like his father.
An arrow almost parted his hair, and two guilty-looking legionaries closed the gap in their shields over his head. Three shrill whistles blew and the source had been too close for comfort. In a heartbeat, men were scrambling away. The two legionaries forgot all about covering him with a shield and leapt for safety. Carfulenus instinctively threw himself forwards, slamming into the backs of other desperate men as a head-sized stone ball thrummed past, taking the leg clean off a man who’d not moved fast enough, before slamming into the base of the mud brick wall.
Carfulenus looked past the poor crippled sod who lay staring at his pulverised stump in horror, and noted sourly that the accidental strikes by the shipboard ballistae were actually having more effect on the walls than the soldiers trying to pull them apart.
He hoped their sacrifice here was giving the main army under Caesar and Mithridates the edge they needed. He hoped it would happen soon, too. The men of the Sixth were being annihilated here, between the constant barrage of missiles from the river and the endless rain of death from above. Estimates were impossible in the press, but the fact that with every breath he heard a new shriek of agony or saw a man disappear, crumpling under the weight of a dropped rock, suggested that the Roman force was not going to last long here. The only real question was whether they would panic, break and flee, or stay and die to a man.
‘How goes the gate?’ he bellowed, catching sight momentarily of the optio of the Fourth Cohort, Second Century. It was worth knowing every man of rank, he’d realised early, and his exceptional memory kept them all locked nicely away.
‘Like hitting a pissing brick wall with a carrot, sir,’ the man replied wearily.
‘This is damned ridiculous.’
He stepped back and looked up, trying to gauge the number of men on the wall. His luck was holding, for he saw the heavy, lead-weighted dart coming at him in time to leap to the side, where a legionary helped steady him for just a moment before falling back to the dirt with an arrow pinned through his throat from side to side.
‘Centurion?’
It took him a moment to realise someone was shouting him.
‘Centurion Carfulenus!’
Turning a full circle, and leaping out of the way of a foot-long dart at the warning tweet of a whistle, he caught sight of a man in a red tunic with a leather satchel, making his way through the press. The man was unarmoured, and it was a miracle he’d made it thus far. As if to confirm that idea, an arrow clacked off Carfulenus’ bronze cuirass, striking at a tight angle and deflected away into the press.
‘Get down man. You’ll get yourself killed. What are you doing here?’
The man took a deep, nervous breath, and Carfulenus couldn’t really blame him as he tried to get the centurion between himself and the river. ‘Fresh orders from Legate Fronto, sir.’
A tiny seed of guilt flowed through him at the name. Fronto had told him to keep an eye and an ear on him for any change, and he’d completely forgotten about the legate until now. But then no one in this carnage could be expected to keep popping up to see if his commander was waving at him.
‘What is it?’
‘The legate says that the south wall is clear. It… argh!’
A sling stone smacked into the courier’s shoulder, smashing the bone and throwing him back. Carfulenus reached down and grabbed him, ignoring the yelp as he grasped the broken arm. ‘Finish your message.’
The man winced. ‘The legate says to take men into the marsh. Take the south wall.’
Carfulenus let the courier fall back and risked looking up again. There were men packed along the wall top. The idea of sloshing through a swamp with dozens of legionaries and attacking a different wall was far from appealing, but it didn’t take much to realise that almost anything had to be better than this.
He looked this way and that and spotted another centurion’s crest in the press.
‘Geminus!’
The man glanced round.
‘Gather your men and follow me.’
At a nod from the man, Carfulenus began to shove and pull his way through the press, heading south along the strip of land. During a brief pause at another whistle, while the men just in front threw themselves out of the way of an artillery shot, another centurion appeared.
‘Modestus, follow me with your men.’
On he went, pushing and heaving, pausing for temporary disasters, climbing over the dead and ducking missiles, shouting every time he saw a centurion’s crest. It was, in a way, a relief as he reached the southern edge of the struggle and the press thinned out. In another way, it was not. The press might have eased, but that simply left them more open to shots from the ships or the defenders on the wall top.
Carfulenus peered ahead, trying not to flinch at the various missiles still being cast their way. It looked even less inviting in person than it had in his head. It appeared to be pleasant, ankle deep grass with occasional tufts of harsher, taller reeds. But there were pools and streams winding across it. It appeared easy.
But he had been born and raised in Veneti lands at Aquileia, where swamps were common, and every boy and girl knew of the dangers. Where every boy and girl knew someone who had not come back from playing in the marshes. He turned and lurched back out of the way of a cast stone. He could see five centurions. At full complement that would mean almost four hundred men following him. Of course, they were at little more than half strength even before the battle. They would be lucky to number two hundred now.
‘Sir, we’re getting h… shit, that was close,’ a centurion hissed as an arrow whirred past his shoulder.
‘Into the marsh. Everyone. Now.’
And without pause, as two more legionaries went down to weapons cast from the wall, Carfulenus started to run, passing the slope of dry land beneath the wall and descending to where the channel of the Nilus had flooded and invaded the land to the south.
‘Be bloody careful and stay with me,’ he shouted as he disappeared suddenly up to the thighs in what had looked like solid turf.
Behind him, soldiers and officers alike lurched to a halt in horror as their commander half-vanished into the ground. Then Centurion Modestus simply changed his stance and his leg slid from under him into wet ground, forcing him to his knees as he tried to pull himself back up using his vine stick.
‘Sir, that’s crazy,’ someone shouted. Carfulenus turned just in time to see two men sprout arrows and fall, gurgling, to the dusty ground.
‘If you stay there, you’re all dead,’ he shouted pointedly, and began to half wade, half swim out away from the fortress to the south. He was aware as he went of the sounds of utter panic behind him.
‘Control yourselves, you ‘orrible bastards,’ snapped another centurion, and Carfulenus turned.
‘On the contrary. Be panicked. Shout and scream like tortured womenfolk if you wish. Run into the swamp. Let the enemy think you’re on the run, then they’ll forget about you.’
A sling stone plopped into the water nearby, and Carfulenus forged on urgently. Assuming the others were following, he pointed ahead. ‘That thick vegetation is solid. Make for it.’
Another step and suddenly the ground disappeared beneath his feet. Struggling back, he managed to regain his footing and turned. Spotting an optio, he held out his hand. ‘Give me your staff,’
The man did so, somewhat reluctantly, and Carfulenus began to move again, using the long staff to test the depth as he walked. It was slow going, but gradually they moved further and further from the fortress. He had been moving in peace for some time before he realised it. The missiles had stopped. They were out of reach of the ramparts and had been written off as fled by the defenders, who now concentrated on the rest of the Romans below them.
‘To that line of thick reeds, then we move west and start to turn and come back,’ he shouted back at the men labouring through the marsh behind him. ‘Follow me precisely, try to hold on to the man in front. If anyone falls, grab them and help them back up. Centurions and optios, use your staffs and sticks to test the ground.’ He laughed, perhaps a little too maniacally. ‘We’re going to get pretty wet, but those Aegyptians in the fortress aren’t going to know what’s hit them, when we get back.’
* * *
In all, it took almost half an hour by Carfulenus’ reckoning before they neared the safety of dry land once more. They had fled deep into the marsh, away from the walls and to the cover of that line of vegetation. There, they had turned and moved inland from the river. It had been clear from such distance that the south wall had barely a man atop it, so sure were the Aegyptians about the inapproachability of that side. He could count three heads in total. There were probably more up there, but all attention would be focused east and west, where the brutal attacks were ongoing.
‘Stay low and keep close to the reeds,’ he said, loud enough that the next dozen or so men could hear, and pass word on along the snaking line of sodden legionaries. They had managed to pull closer together once they turned north again, for there were numerous reed beds and patches of vegetation which helped obscure them, and after the first quarter of an hour the men had swiftly acclimatised to the terrible marsh conditions. At least the water wasn’t cold.
‘Pass the word,’ he said, as his foot found stronger ground with shallower water. He was almost out. ‘Every man at that wall. I want all five centuries attacking, one point each. See the buttresses on the wall. Every third buttress gets one century of men. The mud brick should be easy enough to climb with the buttresses jutting, and there are few men to fight you back. As soon as you gain the wall, clear it for the rest.’
The message went back, relayed from man to man.
Carfulenus looked up. Still nothing. Either the men up there were half asleep, or, very likely, were so bored with looking out over empty marshland that they had given up and were instead intent on watching the battles happening at the other walls.
He almost laughed as he clambered up onto solid ground and, shivering, began to hurry up the slope to the base of the defences. There was a rise of perhaps four feet above the grass and dirt before reaching the base of the mudbrick wall. Unlike the fortress’s other walls, this one had been braced with external buttresses, likely because of the erosive nature of the marsh below it. Climbing an old pitted mudbrick wall would be easier than Roman stonework anyway, but given the angle with the buttress it would be even more swift and simple.
Turning, he watched as his men clambered from the water and split into their centuries, shuffling along the wall into groups. The din of battle was enough to cover the muffled sounds of men sloshing up out of the water, and he was beginning to wonder if they might get inside before they were even noticed when the accident happened.
A legionary simply lost his footing and fell forwards into his comrade. The crash of metal with the collision might still have gone unnoticed had not both men cried out with shock and dismay.
Almost immediately a cry went up on the wall above them.
They had been discovered.
‘Up!’ he bellowed. ‘Up the wall now. No quarter. Secure and hold.’
The legionaries were still struggling out of the water, but there were sufficient men here to constitute a reasonable assault already. Almost a hundred. Taking a deep breath, Carfulenus muttered a prayer to Minerva and then grinned. ‘Hope you’re proud, dad.’
Then he began to climb. As he felt for holds in the crumbled mud mortar, and his feet scrabbled, digging into pits, he laughed at the insanity of it all. He’d signed on as a clerk to avoid exactly this sort of madness, and look at him now.
There were distinctive sounds of panic, organisation and activity above now.
As he struggled upwards, Carfulenus looked this way and that. The men of all five centuries were swarming up the walls, faster and easier than him. He tried not to feel disappointed at that. He was brave enough, fast enough and strong enough, but these men were bulky front-liners and it had always been speed and wit that had marked out Carfulenus among his peers.
Somewhere off to his left, a man managed to reach the parapet. There were shouts and curses in both Latin and Aegyptian, and the sound of metal scraping on metal. Trying to concentrate on his own approach, he made sure to find the very best hand holds. He was high up now and a fall would likely break bones. He almost heaved a sigh of relief, as he glanced up and realised he was mere feet below the parapet. Then the worst happened. A figure appeared, looking over the edge, and then in a heartbeat a spear came out and over, jabbing down.
Carfulenus had no choice. He let go with his right hand and pulled his left foot from a crack, swinging out over emptiness, held by the tips of four fingers and by his toes, as the spear lanced down past him. He marvelled as a burly legionary who’d been climbing up below him snarled angrily and, keeping two feet and one hand wedged, released his right to wrap a grip around the neck of the spear and jerk hard.
The spear came out of the Aegyptian’s hands, but not before pulling him out across the parapet and almost off the wall. The spear clattered away down to the ground, and Carfulenus was moving before he’d really considered the dangers of his decision. Not certain he could find those same handholds before he fell, he grasped the flailing arm of the Aegyptian hanging out over the edge and then let go with his left hand. Trusting to the gods, he began to climb the shouting warrior, using him as a human ladder, pulling himself up and over the top.
As the man cried out at the pain, Carfulenus dropped over the top and onto the rampart, then turned in a swift movement and pulled the man’s leg upwards, pitching him out over the wall. He tried not to feel guilty, as that legionary who had probably just saved his life cursed the centurion for dropping a body on him.
Ripping his sword from its scabbard with a wet, sucking sound and half a gallon of marsh water and bits of weed, he glanced this way and that along the wall. There were less than a dozen men on the parapet. They had been taken by surprise. Even now they were realising the danger, though. Men were being pulled back from the fights to both east and west, making their way along the wall top to counter this fresh threat.
He sucked his teeth. They had the chance here and now, but if they lost impetus, they would end up bogged down and forced back. He couldn’t just struggle to control this wall, or it would do little good. He had to keep pushing and break them. Taking another breath, he found two of the centurions who had clambered up now, fighting off the last of the wall’s defenders.
‘They’re coming to retake the wall,’ he bellowed. ‘Look to the corners. Take your centuries and stop them getting any closer.’
The men saluted and began bellowing their own orders. In moments units of legionaries were running along the wall top and blockading the enemy relief, stopping them retaking the wall. That was only half the job, though. He looked out across the centre of the massive fortress.
The vast majority of the enemy were at the fortress’s edge, either on the walls or below them, supporting their fellows. The bulk of the place consisted of hastily repaired wooden huts or tents and pavilions.
He smiled. Nothing put the shits up a fighting force than something unexpected going on behind them. As another centurion climbed over the edge onto the wall top, Carfulenus gestured to him, and then looked down over the lip. The other two centurions were on the way up.
‘All other men not assigned, here’s your orders. Get into the camp and cause chaos. Burn buildings and tents. Kill anyone you find, no matter who they are. Tip things over and throw them around. Get lost in the tent rows and cause havoc.’
With a grin, the newly arrived centurion saluted and began to lead his men to the nearest wall steps.
Carfulenus stretched and prepared himself. It was not over yet, but he had a feeling. This was right. This was going to work. Whirling his sword above his head, and with his gaze fixed on a glowing brazier nearby just begging to be tipped into the dry wooden doorway next to it, he laughed like a madman and ran into the fray.
* * *
Ptolemy Theos Philopator the Thirteenth, Mighty Warrior of Horus, He of the Two Ladies of Upper and Lower Aegyptus, Divine Beloved of Gold, Lord of Two Lands of Sedge and Bee, Father of the Black Land and son of Ra, chewed his nails nervously. His gaze snapped this way and that, taking in the carnage around him from his excellent commanding position at the northeast corner of the fortress.
How had it all gone so wrong? They’d had sufficient strength, they’d had the edge with terrain, a tough fortress and support from the warships in the river. Rome had nothing but their men. Yet they had come on like lions at gazelle. Fearless and implacable.
He should have known. He’d spent time among them in Alexandria, and if he thought about it now, he could have said in advance that there was no way the Romans were going to end this, other than either victorious or dead to a man.
He’d not wanted this. Oh, he wanted to rule, and he wanted that bitch Cleopatra out of the way, but he never wanted a war to do it. That wasn’t the way of the Black Land. A phial of poison. A deadly serpent. A knife in the night. That was the way of the kings and queens of Aegyptus. Not damn great sieges and the like. Ganymedes was behind all this, and Arsinoë behind him.
And now it was all going wrong. Ptolemy knew little of war. He’d never drawn a sword in his life, and had overseen any important conflicts from the safety of a throne room a minimum of forty miles away. Yet he knew it was over. He could see it in the eyes of General Ganymedes, who stood nearby, bellowing at people and pointing this way and that. He could see it in the uncertain gaze of the officers. In the stance of the Gabiniani’s commander. He could see it in the fear-sweat of the soldiers around them.
It had been bad enough facing Caesar’s army when they had overrun the cavalry fort so easily and so swiftly. Then they had made the insane decision to attack along the riverbank too. Ganymedes had been certain that approach would be so costly the Romans would never try it. Then they did, and the general had had to pull away precious men from the main defences to help there. And just when they thought they had it under control, a small unit of Romans had emerged from the marshes to the south like strange swamp demons, and had swiftly gained control of the south rampart.
The Aegyptian command had responded well, but the Romans continued to respond better. Faster. Ganymedes had pulled yet more men from his defences to retake the south wall, but they were being held at the corners by small determined groups of legionaries, while the rest of the Roman dogs flooded into the fortress itself.
Now buildings were ablaze, and the precious reserves and slaves, and all those needed to support the massive army who had been cowering in the safety of the heart of the fort, were dying in droves by the blade, or worse still, trapped in burning buildings. Chaos ruled in the fortress, and Ptolemy could see no way they could realistically regain control now. Indeed, the realisation that the fortress was on the brink of collapse had redoubled the Roman efforts. Those men by the river bank had forced a hole through the mudbrick walls and were only being kept outside by throwing men at them in waves. And the Romans’ Aeolian ally was forcing the western gate, on the brink of success.
They had lost, and they all knew it.
Ptolemy had made his decision even before he saw others doing the same. Soldiers, panic filling their very marrow, were dropping down from the walls, risking injury to escape this place that had begun as a sanctuary and now seemed destined to become a mausoleum. They were dropping over the very corner where the pharaoh watched, where they could attempt to flee to the north or, best of all, into the water where ships waited to spirit them away.
The pharaoh looked left and right. He was under no illusions that he was in control here. He was a prisoner of Ganymedes as much, if not more, than he’d been a prisoner of Caesar. The soldiers by his side were his jailors, not his ‘protectors’. They were distracted. Everyone was distracted. The war was ending in chaos and oblivion. Who was going to care about him?
Without further pause, Ptolemy leapt forwards and jumped from the rampart, turning well and reaching out to grasp the parapet. With shouts of alarm his jailors came after him, but they could do little. He was hanging by his fingertips. The drop was perhaps forty feet in total, just over thirty from where he hung, but a good seven or eight feet of crumpled bodies lay down there to break the fall.
As hairy hands reached down to grab him, he let go.
Ptolemy, renegade king of Aegyptus, hit the cushion of the dead hard, but managed not to twist or break anything. He was forced to pause to recover, but was soon up and moving again. The knowledge that the fortress was lost must have been all consuming now, for men were throwing themselves from the walls with wild abandon, risking everything rather than be butchered or burned inside. He was one of hundreds, thousands even, fleeing the walls. The Romans were still clamouring to get in just fifty paces away, and some turned and shouted, pointing at the king.
He ignored them. They would never catch him. He sprinted from the dust down the bank and threw himself into the water. The nearest ship was already receiving survivors who had swum across. Ptolemy set his sights on it. As he swam, desperation giving way slowly to relief, he glanced back. He was immensely gratified to spot both Ganymedes and Arsinoë high on the walls, surrounded by Roman standards. Good. At least they could pay for this mess.
And when Rome had settled it all, Ptolemy would approach Caesar and explain that he had been an unwilling prisoner. That he had begged Caesar not to send him back. He could yet turn this to his advantage.
He would…
The crocodile came from nowhere.
One moment, Ptolemy Theos Philopator was a refugee king, with plans to regain his throne.
The next, he was food.