Zela, August 2nd 47 BC
‘No movement in evidence?’ Caesar said.
Galronus shook his head. ‘Their preparations continue with desperate speed now that they know we are coming, but they show no sign of retreat.’
‘And why would they?’ Cassius sighed. ‘Outnumbering us two to one and in a position of strength.’
Fronto nodded. The army had marched at speed on Zela, scouts ranging ahead. They had found the ancient city, fortified on its hill, rising in the centre of a wide plain amid the mountains, but that was not where Pharnaces would be found. Galronus and his riders had given the king’s position as a hill fortress some three miles north of the city, approachable only along a narrow, winding valley.
The Roman army had arrived late the previous evening and had encamped close to the city. Word could no longer be kept from the enemy of their approach, for clearly Pharnaces would have eyes and ears around the city, watching the Romans arrive unexpectedly and at speed. At least Caesar’s army had managed to close to three miles unanticipated, which would send the edge of panic through the enemy. The large remaining question, of course, was how to deal with the final approach.
That question had raised great debate in the headquarters during the evening. Galronus had not been part of it, for he and his best riders spent the hours of darkness riding around the locale, keeping a watch on the king’s fortifications, and attempting to identify any other approach.
That had been Brutus’ favoured tactic: a surprise assault via some unexpected and unidentified secondary approach, such as the Persians had achieved at Thermopylae, flanking Leonidas and his three hundred Spartans. Unfortunately, try as they might, Galronus and his men had been unable to find anything more useful than treacherous shepherd’s paths that would allow only for very slow and painful going, which could easily be spotted and blocked by the enemy. Inadequate by far for a legion.
That approach had failed.
Cassius had been in favour of simply digging in at Zela and occupying the plain, fortifying the approach to the valley along which the king’s army lay. It was a long-term tactical approach, and a very traditional one. The enemy would be trapped in poor mountainous territory, their access to good supplies and forage cut off. It was, in truth, probably the most sensible notion. But it would also likely carry them into a siege through the inhospitable months. Caesar had cited such problems as the unknown territory, mountain winters and the distance from Roman supply routes as reasons for setting this plan aside. The undertone that everyone understood was that Caesar could not personally afford to dally over winter, no matter the cost. Rome was slipping further from his control every day he campaigned in the east, his mistress languished in Alexandria, closing on giving birth to a potential heir of the Julii, and last but far from least, Cato, Scipio, Labienus and the others continued to gain strength against him in Africa.
No, Fronto knew the general could not stay long enough to effect a siege. He needed to end this.
There was only one way, then. They had to march up that narrow valley and risk everything, deploying in the ground between peaks where the king had fortified. And no officer present liked those odds. It had ‘trap’ or ‘ambush’ written all over it.
‘And you’ve found nothing along the valley?’ the general asked, not for the first time.
‘The valley appears to be clear, Consul,’ Galronus replied wearily, now approaching his second day without sleep. ‘Though it should be noted that the sides are steep, there are woodlands, scree slopes and rocky outcroppings – places where cavalry simply cannot go. We cannot say for certain that nothing awaits you, just that nothing waits where the cavalry can see.’
Caesar nodded. They had also sent out native scouts on foot, men from Deiotarus’ army, and nothing had been spotted, but then it had been night-time, after all.
‘Then, all being well, our path is clear. We move at speed through the valley and fortify our position once we face the enemy.’
‘And if the enemy do have traps and ambushes in place along that valley?’ Cassius asked.
‘We are in the hands of the gods, Cassius.’
The general waved over the man in the white robe. ‘What have you seen, Meno,’ he asked the man.
The augur stretched his hands wide, theatrically. ‘Mighty Caesar, the omens are good. I have seen in the first strains of dawn light this morning four eagles, which, being the number of legions’ eagles with this army, shows the favour of Jove, Minerva and Mars. The largest eagle soared north into that same valley, and within moments put up a flock of lesser birds, returning with one of them in its talons. The gods are with us.’
Caesar straightened. He looked down from the tribunal rock on which they stood with its unparalleled view of city, plain and mountain pass ahead, moonlight still giving the world a silvery glow with dawn yet an hour or two away. The better part of ten thousand soldiers stood in ordered columns below, waiting for the signal, cavalry off to the side – those who were not still out scouting – and the slaves drawn from the baggage train gathered in clusters, weighed down with the kit they bore. Everyone waited, silent and tense, including the officers.
Caesar stepped to the edge of the rise, reached up with his left hand and pulled his white cloak up over his head so that the folds hung like a hood, the usual crimson cloak bundled ready on his horse close by. Suitably attired, he waited as four men brought a heavy altar before him, grunting under the weight, while others set a brazier nearby, producing a white towel and a bowl of water.
Once everything was in position, Caesar raised his hand. A flautist began to play an oddly haunting melody nearby. The consul then washed his hands in the bowl, drying them on the towel before drawing the ornate silver-hilted pugio at his side. Hirtius poured a little wine into the brazier, to which Cassius added incense, the heady smoke that rose with a loud hiss strange and otherworldly.
‘Jupiter, greatest and best,’ Caesar intoned loudly, ‘accept this sacrifice and grant your sons swift victory this day, that we might restore to Rome that which has been taken, and chastise the thief-king and his horde.’
As he finished, two slaves appeared, dressed in pristine white and carrying a lamb draped with red ribbons and gold phalerae. Caesar held out his free hand, and the small jug of wine was handed over. As the lamb, which seemed oddly calm, dazed even, was laid on the altar, Caesar anointed it with a few drops of wine on the head.
Cassius stepped forwards and swiftly removed the ribbons and medals, leaving a quiet, still, white lamb. Fronto watched as the knife plunged down, and the lamb briefly cried out and struggled, too late to do much else. The two slaves came to hold it still as Caesar went to work, blood running up his arms to the elbows and coating his ornate blade as he continued to intone his prayers, removing the meat for the god and pushing it onto the stick held up by Hirtius. This was then placed in the brazier, an offering for Jupiter. The rest of the animal, the god appeased, was divided up and plated for meals.
There would be no sacrificial banquet, of course – there rarely was with Caesar’s rituals, for there was always a battle to fight – so the remains of the lamb would go to worthies in the city, helping tie them to Rome once more. As everything was taken away, Caesar handed his knife to a slave to clean, and washed his hands once more, drying them.
The crowds below remained silent. The auguries were good, and Caesar had invoked the greatest god of Rome, sacrificing to him, and nothing had gone amiss. No one could now doubt their success.
Dry and clean once more, Caesar removed the white cloak, lowering his makeshift hood, and a slave brought forth his red cloak and fastened it about him. Fronto couldn’t help but notice the symbolism of pure white to blood red. The consul held his hands up to the waiting legions.
‘Men of Rome, the gods are with us. Beyond the valley lies a man who has stolen land from the republic and tortured and murdered our people with impunity. We go now with divine blessings to teach him a lesson. Are you with me?’
The answer came in a roar that rose like a wave, dipped and crested at least three times as the legions of Rome assembled before them gave their approval to their general and the cause. Even Cassius, usually dour in the consul’s company, seemed to be caught up in the fervour. Fronto smiled. Days like this were why a man knotted a general’s belt around his middle, or drew his sword at all.
‘Give the order,’ Caesar said finally to the men around him. ‘Everyone knows their deployment and order of march, the cavalry have scouted the terrain at the far end of the valley, and all is in place. There are only three miles to cover. The men can move at double time, with support to follow, lightest kit possible. Have the slaves got everything?’
Hirtius nodded. ‘An entire camp on the backs of men, sir. Remarkable.’
Brutus turned a furrowed brow on the general. ‘Sir, at double speed and with light kit, the men will be easy targets. We might have scouted as much as possible, but if Pharnaces does have traps and ambushes waiting for us in the valley, then this battle might be over before it’s begun. We should move steadily and alert, clearing out each woodland as we pass, and checking every outcrop.’
Caesar nodded. ‘That is most certainly what a general would usually do, and Pharnaces knows that. He therefore must know that any small ambushes he has left will come to naught. No, the valley is clear. The gods have confirmed it for us. And Pharnaces will be expecting a slow and careful approach. But just as we force-marched here and took him by surprise, so we shall do the same once more. We shall emerge before his forces long before he anticipates us, and at dawn, when he will only just be expecting us to break camp.’
‘Sir?’
‘Pharnaces is an impulsive man. He may have men of moderation in his army, but unlike the forces of Rome, his army is that of one man alone, a sole ruler with absolute power. It is my belief that when confronted with something so unexpected, he will react instinctively, without thought for strategy and care. That, Brutus, is where our advantage lies, and why the disparity in numbers will make no difference today. We’ve come this far and we can all but see the enemy waiting. I will be damned if we do not defeat them this day. Onward.’
As Caesar turned and marched towards his horse, the signals went up in the valley, whistles and cornua blaring and shrieking. The legions began to move towards that narrow defile in the pre-dawn gloom.
Fronto’s hand went to the figurine of Fortuna at his neck. Prayers to Jupiter notwithstanding, he felt that in the circumstances luck was what they needed.
Let that valley be clear.
* * *
Fronto rode Bucephalus along the last stretch of the valley. They had traversed two miles in minimal time, marching at impressive speed. Despite the fears of a number of the officers, no traps or ambushes had been sprung along the snaking, narrow valley. Now, the army was moving with officer-driven restraint, the men straining at the leash and wanting to be out into the plain and finally at the enemy. The gods were truly with them, and every man was sure of it.
As the mackerel streaks of dawn began to lace themselves through the high, dark, indigo cloud, they reached their destination. The lead elements of the army, consisting of Calvinus’ Thirty Sixth Legion, rounded the last corner of the valley, scouts ahead waving the all clear, and Fronto, along with several of the other senior officers, emerged into the new valley with them.
The defile they had left had been tight and winding, spacious enough only for a column twelve men wide much of the time, and switching this way and that, following a dry seasonal river bed. What that defile opened into was impressive in its dimensions. A wide vale, almost a mile across and some four miles long, filled with good arable land and dotted with native farmsteads, lay hemmed in by moors and peaks. Pharnaces’ army was visible the moment they rounded the last turn, sitting on a rise at the far side of the valley. The huge, sprawling fortress that awaited them was instantly daunting, powerful ramparts atop high slopes, filled with fervent warriors.
Fronto was reminded unpleasantly of Gergovia, one of few occasions during the Gaulish campaign when the legions had been roundly battered and defeated by the tribes. The slope and the situation was reminiscent. He prayed that Caesar’s divine entreaty had been enough, and that his own dear lady of luck would shelter them through the day.
The riders, including the figure of Galronus, who had scouted ahead, were now sitting upon the slope to the left of the valley’s entrance, of a height with the enemy camp, and facing it over a distance of perhaps three quarters of a mile.
In response to their signals, the legions began to move into position. Along with the staff officers, Fronto climbed the slope to meet with Galronus and watch the army settle around them. The camp they were creating upon this slope was not intended as a massive defence from which to hold off an aggressive enemy. Caesar had avowed his intent to see this fight finished today, and would countenance no delay; certainly no siege. But, despite that, Pharnaces was an unknown quantity, and the legions’ approach would place them in instant danger. Thus they would deploy immediately into a makeshift fortification, while the next move was considered.
The problem had been that they could hardly afford the time to construct a camp. A fortification large enough to hold this number of men would take at least two hours, during which time they would be at risk of attack from a clever enemy. Moreover, digging ditches and raising ramparts would tire legionaries who were clearly expected to win a battle today against overwhelming odds, and that they could scant risk.
Fronto watched Caesar’s innovative solution at work.
The men of the Thirty Sixth, weighed down with only shields and armour, filed to the left hand, western, end of the rise, and formed up ready for a fight. Behind them, Deiotarus’ native legion followed suit, so perfectly a reflection of the Thirty Sixth that they might as well have been Roman themselves, with Calvinus’ other forces falling in next, and the Sixth bringing up the rear on the eastern flank. It was all perfectly organised, and would even now be causing urgent discussion in the enemy camp. Indeed, Fronto could see sudden and widespread movement behind Pharnaces’ ramparts. They would be coming soon, if Pharnaces was half as impulsive as they had been led to believe. While they were still undefended, the rebel king would see his opportunity. Was that what was happening? The entire enemy force preparing to sally forth?
As they stood, watching, the camp began to form around them. The slaves, usually shuffling along as part of the lengthy baggage train under the watchful eye of a few veteran centuries, had instead moved forwards behind the legions, each man carrying a burden equal to the weight of the legionaries’ own gear.
They hurried into position immediately. Every two paces along the northern edge, facing the enemy, a slave arrived with a mattock, another with a basket of detritus and a third with three sudis stakes over their shoulder. Between them they also carried mallets, nails, lengths of rope and more. Everything required.
Each slave, under the instruction of the legionaries behind them, went to work. One hacked at the ground for a short while, breaking up the gritty soil to allow for extra traction, then stepped back and produced more equipment. The second slave then tipped their basket out beyond the broken soil, comprising a collection of broken pot sherds, jagged stones, thorny brambles and more. Every naturally occurring obstacle that threatened the feet and legs of an attacker, all of which had easily been gathered en route. They too stepped back, the trio now working together as the three sudis stakes were put into position, criss-crossed like a giant wooden caltrop, presenting sharpened points to all sides. They then used the rope lengths to tie them all together. In mere moments there was an impenetrable fence of sharp timber, fronted by a patch of troublesome ground, all along the edge of the slope, such that the legions awaited attack on the hill behind them.
It was so swiftly done that it impressed even those who’d been involved in its planning. All this and without more than a few words of advice and command from the legionaries, who would usually be doing the labouring. Instead they waited, resting. They would not be exhausted from their labours in the coming hours, while still having put the defences in place. Similar lines were now being drawn around the flanks, too.
A series of loud horn blasts echoed out across the valley from the fortress at the far side. Fronto’s gaze shot to the north once more, away from their works. The gates of Pharnaces’ fortress were open and his men were filtering out through them in droves.
‘Is this it?’ asked a man close by, and Fronto turned to see that he was now at the edge of the Sixth’s First Cohort, and Decimus Carfulenus stood implacable, vine cane drumming slowly on his greave.
Fronto shrugged. ‘If King Deiotarus’ summary of the man is correct. Caesar seems to think so. Personally, in my opinion, only a fool would abandon a place like that and come at us.’
‘A fool or a man who knows he can win,’ Carfulenus pointed out.
Fronto nodded absently. It was true. An attack would be foolish in most ways, but that depended upon more than one factor, many of which were out of the Romans’ hands. The enemy outnumbered them two to one and were in good spirits. That they could fight was evidenced by the sound beating they had given Calvinus’ army last year, and the simple fact that they had so easily carved out a kingdom in such a short space of time.
Fronto began to worry. Perhaps they were good enough. If they were strong enough, brave enough, numerous enough and disciplined enough, then the sudis fence and the broken pottery awaiting them on the slope could be wholly inadequate.
His hand went up once more to the figurine of the luck goddess at his neck. Please, Divine Fortuna, don’t let us have come through all those months of shit in Aegyptus just to fall now.
He watched, tense. Across the wide valley, the army of the would-be king of Pontus was lining up in formation before their walls. What was he up to? The army was huge. And disciplined. He could see that from the efficiency with which they moved from garrison positions to an army on a war footing, spread across the slope. That did not bode over-well.
Somewhere along the line, a Roman officer gave the legions the order to fortify. Immediately, the front lines of legionaries began to go to work, taking mattocks from the slaves nearby and starting to dig turfs to create an additional rampart behind the stake fence. Fronto watched his own men begin to do the same and contemplated telling them to stand to again, but decided against it. Everything right now was a judgement call until they were committed, and Pharnaces might just be flexing his muscles. Certainly he seemed to be doing so, lining his forces up in direct sight, so heavily outnumbering the Romans and with such clear discipline.
Fronto chewed his lip, not really sure whether he wanted Pharnaces to attack or not. If he did so now, with things the way they stood, it suggested that he was confident of victory. In moments, the entire Bosporan force was in position, watching them from across the valley.
A weird silence descended, broken only by the crack and thud of mattocks and shovels as the men of four legions worked feverishly to improve their defences, somewhat negating the entire point of keeping the men fresh. At least they’d not had to lug the gear here because of the slaves. Fronto wondered who had ordered the works, and turned to look back at Caesar, who sat astride his horse at the high point with Deiotarus and a few others. What he saw did not fill him with confidence. Caesar was gesturing wildly at the enemy and was involved in what appeared to be an argument with the king. In that moment, Fronto suspected that it was Deiotarus of Galatia who had given the order for further fortification, which had then been picked up by Caesar’s legions, and that the general was arguing against it. That the two commanders of this army could not agree did not improve matters. Indeed, even Caesar looked uncertain, going by his movements and general manner. After one last fevered discussion Caesar issued further orders, and riders hurtled from there all around the army. Fronto waited, tense, until the courier reached him.
‘Sir, the consul orders work to start on general fortification. Deploy the front line beyond the defences and have the legion work on a rampart and ditch.’
The king had won out, then. Fronto looked back across the valley. The enemy still were not moving, just standing in ordered lines. What were they up to? Their inscrutability was playing havoc with decision making in the Roman command. With a nervous shake of the head, Fronto relayed the orders to Carfulenus and immediately the front rows of legionaries began to shuffle carefully through gaps that were hastily made in the sudis fence. Once they were there and lined up, the Sixth went to work on a full defensive system.
Caesar would be irritated, he knew. The general had been determined to end this today, but now that was looking unlikely. The enemy did not seem to have taken the bait the way Caesar had expected, but were instead posturing and showing their strength. In response, Deiotarus, who had already lost one battle to the invader, had advocated preparing for the worst.
And that was what they were doing.
Fronto twitched, his fingers drumming a tattoo on his belt. He didn’t like this one bit. Not just the not knowing what was going to happen, but also the not being sure what he even wanted to happen.
If Pharnaces suddenly broke into the attack, it meant he was prepared and believed he could win. And worse, now that the legions were at work digging, and not lined up for the fight, the army was less prepared than ever to deal with an attack. An assault by the enemy, despite being what Caesar had hoped for, might now be the very last thing they needed.
On the other hand, a lengthy face off and siege across the valley, with both sides entrenched, sounded like a hell none of them could wish for, a repeat of Alexandria but without the comforts. Neither force had the supply chain in place for something like that. It would be dreadful, have an uncertain outcome, and every day of delay would make things worse for the consul elsewhere in the republic.
So that left just one other option. If the enemy were not going to charge the Roman line, which was what they had hoped for yet feared at the same time, and no one was prepared for a long-term siege, then that meant the only option was for the legions of Rome to march across the valley, and attempt to storm an extremely well defended fortress manned by an army twice their size. Hardly a move to be welcomed.
The gods had sanctioned this, hadn’t they? What were the silly divine bastards playing at? Briefly, he wondered whether actually the white lamb had been corrupt and riddled with disease, displaying divine warnings, and the general had hidden it and pronounced it clean. He wondered whether Caesar had primed the priest in white with what he needed men to hear. Roman generals had done as much before, Fronto knew, and he would hardly put such a thing past Caesar, for whom appearance was a weapon. Were the gods truly actually against them, and Caesar was hiding it all?
He fretted.
‘What the fuck are they?’ said a soldier somewhere nearby, earning himself a smack across the shoulders from a centurion’s vine stick.
But his sentiments were being echoed along the line. Fronto peered off across the valley, following many pointing digits. Something else was happening there. He watched in fascination as chariots filed out of the gates of the fortress and arced around the periphery of the gathered Bosporan King’s force.
As the vehicles were brought in front of the enemy infantry, they settled into a single line in wide-spaced formation. Fronto peered at them. At this distance, perhaps three quarters of a mile, he could make out much about the chariots even with his eyesight. They were quadrigas of sorts, the traces fitted Greek-style, with a single line of four horses. On the platform stood two figures, one burdened with a spear, the other seemingly unarmed. A warrior and a driver, then.
‘I hate chariots,’ he muttered.
‘Especially this sort,’ said another horseman coming to a halt next to him. Fronto turned to see one of the Galatian officers beside him.
‘Why?’
‘Scythed chariots,’ the man said quietly.
Fronto’s lip twitched. Rome had faced Pontic scythed chariots three times during the Mithridatic wars. The first time had been a disaster. A complete slaughter and routing of the Roman forces. Tales had abounded for years thereafter of men watching their friends literally sliced in half by the long, heavy scythe blades jutting from the axles. Men who were still screaming in agony while their top halves lay ten feet from the bottom, the ground in between a mess of blood, churned turf and ground-under intestines.
Of course, Rome was nothing if not adaptable. When the Pontics had tried to repeat their victory, the Roman commander had been prepared. They had leapt aside and let the chariots pass through the lines, where they were taken down with javelins. And the third time they had lured the chariots into charging where a line of sharpened stakes awaited them.
This would be different. The Romans did not have the space on the hilltop to open up and let the vehicles through. The enemy had watched them put the stake fence in position and so would not allow themselves to die upon it. That meant that they had some other tactic in mind.
‘What will they do?’
The Galatian officer shrugged. ‘Given their capabilities, the width of four horses, and their knowledge of what awaits them, I know what I would do. Charge at the front ranks, then issue a sharp turn at the last moment, and race along the line.’
‘Wouldn’t that put them at a rather heavy risk? They’d be open to attack.’
The Galatian’s face soured. ‘Wait ‘til you see the speed they move and the length of that scythe blade. By the time a rider gets taken down, he’ll have cut a hundred men in two. They know what they’re doing, and if their chariots are used right, then they are a true nightmare in the field. Fortunately, few commanders ever really use them to their best advantage. Best pray Pharnaces’ master of chariots has not learned from history.’
Fronto tried to picture the effect of a chariot with scythed wheels turning just right so that it ran along the front ranks of legionaries, its blade at waist height, strong enough and moving fast enough to shear straight through both a shield and the man holding it. The moment he managed to picture it, he wished he hadn’t, and that he could unsee the mental image.
Bringing the men back inside the line might be the answer, but then they would just find another tactic, he felt certain. No, if the chariots reached them, there would be trouble. The best solution would be to stop them getting this far. If only they could spread caltrops out down there, they might be able to do so, but there wasn’t time.
He frowned, and turned to the man beside him. ‘What are you doing over here anyway?’ he muttered to the Galatian.
The man smiled. ‘My king has ordered our officer corps to join yours during the battle. Anything new we might learn from the lions of Rome is of value to the army of the king.’
Fronto nodded. ‘At the moment you’ll just be learning how screwed we are,’ he grunted, peering at the distant chariots once more. Slowly, though, he began to smile. ‘No. Perhaps not.’
As he watched, there was a distant tumultuous roar of raised voices, blarting horns and thundering swords and spears, and the army of Pharnaces surged forth down the slope.
They were coming. For better or for worse, the army of Pharnaces was moving to attack, chariots at the fore. Fronto turned and waved to one of the message riders. The horseman trotted over, and he bowed.
Fronto pointed at the man. ‘Take these orders to every commander above the rank of centurion, and do it quickly…’