December 46 BC
There was no longer any hope of a surprise assault on Corduba. Sextus Pompey had seen to that with his demolition of the bridge. There were other, more distant, approaches to the city, but nothing as direct as the bridge that had gone, and the wily general had kept eyes on every approach. By the time Caesar’s army had arrived at the river, Pompey had withdrawn the scattered garrisons to the city to bolster his defence, drawn in everything of value, and dispatched riders. The horsemen seemed to go in every direction but that of Caesar’s army, and though not one had fallen into their hands, no man on Caesar’s staff was under any illusion as to where they were bound. Every rider would be heading for either a garrison town or a mobile force, drawing them back. That meant probably the besieging force of Pompey’s brother at Ulia, but it likely also meant Labienus and his cavalry. Some among the staff had voiced satisfaction that perhaps this could be settled in one go, Roman-style, in the open field. Postumius had been the one to crush that joyous thought.
He and Hirtius had been working on the numbers. Caesar’s army numbered three legions brought from Italia, the Fifth, Sixth and Tenth, along with roughly the same number of cavalry. To this he had added the army already in Hispania, which consisted of more or less equal numbers. Six legions at less than full strength would mean perhaps twenty five thousand men. Another twenty five thousand cavalry and auxilia. It sounded like a force to be reckoned with, and the staff officers had nodded their satisfaction. Then estimates of enemy numbers were voiced. Based on reports, scouting missions and the details from enemy deserters, it was clear that the Pompeys had been recruiting solidly in their time here. Thirteen legions and an equivalent number of auxilia and cavalry. More than double Caesar’s numbers.
Postumius had mused on their quality. Of those thirteen, only two had been longstanding in Hispania, a third formed of settled veterans and a fourth that had been brought from Africa. The rest had been formed from deserters, auxilia and desperate levies. Nine legions would be of poor quality and largely untested, against Caesar’s veterans. Still, the numbers were telling. Caesar would have to be careful. If the enemy managed to pull their entire force together, they could swamp the Caesarians with ease. Caesar would have to launch precision attacks and win smaller, individual victories, and with the fortifying of Corduba, the chances were that if they besieged the city, long before it fell they would be surrounded by the rest of the rebel forces. Simply: they no longer had the time and leisure to take the enemy capital.
Thus, while the legions busily replaced the bridge, Caesar’s engineers filling wicker baskets with stones and using them to create a causeway topped with thick beams, the officers argued tactics. Undoubtedly the other Pompey was already on the way from Ulia, and in short order they would be trapped against Corduba’s walls between the two brothers.
‘We need to reduce their numbers,’ Caesar had sighed, tapping his finger at known positions across the map. ‘It would take far too long to bring fresh men from Italia to balance the odds, and I have pushed Rome’s elite as far as I can with taxation, so the raising of fresh legions there would be costly. Would that we had the gold and silver mines of Hispania that the Pompeys currently control. I admit that we have underestimated rebel numbers in Hispania, to our peril. However, we still have the better men, the initiative, and the superior strategists. Put your heads together gentlemen. Find me a garrison to destroy that will not land us in the lap of one of our enemy generals.’
To that end, as the bridge was completed and the army led across, scouts had been sent out with spare horses and orders to ride hard and fast across the region, returning with what dispositions they could find. The officers chafed at their inactivity, for the army had been encamped on the Corduba side of the river in three camps close to the new bridge, awaiting fresh intelligence, settled in, staring now at the back end of winter and new year approaching. Fronto, however, had known that the general was up to something. Six centuries of veteran legionaries had been drawn from the legions and had left camp on ‘detached duty’ for Caesar, a number of couriers had been dispatched, and the general had that twinkle in his eye.
‘We could at least use our time trying to take the city,’ one of the officers had grunted.
‘And be weighed down and pinned with all our supplies unloaded, siege engines and all our gear in place when Gnaeus Pompey arrives? I think not.’
And that had been that.
Information had started to come back quickly. The siege of Ulia had indeed been lifted, Gnaeus Pompey and his army marching north, heading for Corduba. The enemy commanders seemed to have a large number of small garrisons spread around, but one prime target had come to stand out. A day’s march southeast lay the town of Ategua. Three of the Pompeys’ legions garrisoned the town, including one of his veterans, for Ategua was, after Corduba, their second most important supply site. The scouts had reported that the town was well defended, but its loss would be a crucial blow to the enemy. Losing a quarter of their heavy infantry and a quarter of their entire military supply would go a long way to evening things between the two armies.
The problem was that Gnaeus Pompey’s army would be in the road between the two cities, for Ulia lay also in that direction.
‘We could probably take his army if we march,’ Postumius had murmured.
‘And open our back to the other Pompey marching from Corduba to join him,’ Fronto replied. ‘That was exactly what we’ve been worrying about. Right now we’re in danger of being trapped, and chasing one of them will allow the other to attack us from the rear.’
‘Then why are we just sitting here and waiting for them to trap us? To the north the mountains seal us in, to the east lies only our own territory, Gnaeus Pompey comes from the south. Perhaps we should press west and seek Hispalis?’
Hirtius shook his head this time. ‘Labienus is likely out there, and then we stretch ourselves, leaving both Pompeys to cut off our supply lines.’
‘So we wait to be trapped or we march into the trap ourselves.’
‘No,’ Caesar said quietly. We draw Pompey here. The closer he is to Corduba, the further he is from Ategua. Remember our campaigns against his father in Illyria? We would draw him out, surprise him and move off in order to gain distance. We shall do the same here.’
‘But we’ll be trapped between the bridge and Corduba.’
‘I have seen to that.’
Thus it was that Fronto stood, tense, watching as Gnaeus Pompey’s force fortified their camps across the river. The general had settled his army, more than a match for Caesar’s numerically, in a similar fashion on the far side of the bridge; three camps in an arc. In the preceding day, the Caesarian forces had drawn a line of fortifications linking their camps and surrounding the northern end of the bridge. Why, Fronto had been unsure. It appeared as though Caesar intended to hold the bridge at all costs. Even as Pompey’s forces had settled across the river, his men had begun to fortify and build similar ramparts beyond the bridge. Already, a number of small skirmishes had broken out across the river, arrows and javelins cast, a little damage done. The men of both sides were itching to do something, though the river sat between them, and an assault on the bridge would commit them to a dangerous course. And so, they continued to fortify and argue at a distance. How long it would be before Sextus Pompey decided to leave Corduba’s walls and attempt to crush them against his brother was anyone’s guess.
Fronto ground his teeth and finally snapped, marching back through the camp and straight to Caesar’s command tent. The praetorians on duty made a spirited attempt to stop him, but Fronto simply shouted to the general, and was finally admitted, noting with sadness the absence of Salvius Cursor and wondering whether he was still breathing back in Rome.
Caesar was poring over the map in his tent, pinching the bridge of his nose.
‘Level with me,’ Fronto said, folding his arms.
‘Marcus?’
‘You’ve got something planned. You’re not delaying for no reason, and everyone is tense, speculating. Why are we digging in when we should be leaving? What have you got planned?’
Caesar gave him a wan smile. ‘Very well, Fronto. In fact, I have two possible plans in place. Since Corduba was effectively closed to us, I have set my sights on Ategua.’
‘This we all know, but it does not explain all this.’
‘I have called in a number of debts and favours, Marcus. Even now, a sizeable number of reinforcements will most certainly be on the way from Saguntum and the northeast. I have neither time nor funds to bring forces from Italia, but there are sources closer to hand. I had hoped they would arrive before Gnaeus Pompey, and that we might have enough to plough through him and then march on Ategua. However, I have yet to receive any tidings of them, and Pompey is here, digging in. My first option has failed. Thus I now move to my second plan.’
‘Which is?’
‘We do what we did to his father. We lull him into the impression that we are digging in, and while he settles himself we get ready to run. We move fast and suddenly and skirt around him, making for Ategua. That way, we can pick up our men from Ulia and invest Ategua before Gnaeus can pull it all together and follow.’
‘And we’re just going to fly over the top of him?’ Fronto’s brow folded in suspicion. ‘The couriers you took were the ones sent for reinforcements, but the centuries you withdrew… they were engineers, yes?’
Caesar smiled. ‘Quite.’
‘So while we’ve been making a big noise here, they’ve been building a second bridge.’
‘Some way to the east, out of sight of the city and Pompey’s camp. Wide enough for us to cross at speed.’
‘And just like Dyrrachium, we’ll burn torches and have men on the ramparts to the last moment while the army moves out.’
‘Precisely. But for the continued value of secrecy, I have kept this plan from the staff and the men. Spies abound and while we daily take in stray deserters from the enemy, be sure that they do the same from us. I cannot afford word of such things to leak out.’
Fronto nodded. ‘So we need to make this look real; like we’re settled in to stay.’
‘We do.’
‘Then we need to draw some blood. Make Pompey fret and concentrate.’
‘What have you in mind?’
‘There are constant clashes between us, but sitting here and doing nothing we give Pompey no reason to believe we have a goal; a plan. We need to focus him.’
‘How?’
‘Have one of the couriers fall into his hands. Or some volunteer officer. Leak to him the news that your reinforcements are coming. Then he will understand why you stay here.’ Caesar nodded. ‘And,’ Fronto added, ‘make it clear to him that the bridge is important.’
‘How?’
‘Try to take it.’
Caesar frowned, but Fronto smiled. ‘It sounds dangerous, but bear in mind how narrow the bridge is. Casualties can be kept to a minimum while making it look like a real attempt. We bring forward stakes, barrows and timbers, as though we intend to take the bridge and fortify their end of it.’
‘And consequently they will press back.’
‘They will deploy everything they have and settle for the long war. That will make it all the harder for them to move swiftly when we depart.’
Caesar smiled.
* * *
‘With the greatest respect, if I see you in the press, sir, I will punch you myself.’
Fronto glared at Atenos, but the primus pilus of the Tenth met his gaze with a steely one of his own.
‘Alright. But be careful. I want as few casualties as possible.’
Atenos gave him a long-suffering smile and turned to his centurions. ‘Carinus, you and I take pride of place. The First and Second Centuries have the most weight and muscle. We’re going to drop into testudo the moment there’s any resistance and push forward. I want to reach the far side of the bridge straight away. Then, Nonius, you start ferrying over rampart materials behind us. Carinus, the moment we’re in real danger, fall your men back, while Quintus brings his up to cover you, and I’ll do the same while Statius covers me. We need it to look like we’ve overextended and had to withdraw. I don’t care if you have to push a few barrows and beams into the river to add to the look.’
The officers saluted, and in moments they were moving. The enemy were still busy at their camps, clearly visible across the bridge, busily extending their ramparts to the water’s edge where pila and arrows were still being exchanged. The Tenth moved without a signal given. The first two centuries simply burst out of the Caesarian lines and ran for the bridge, only falling into formation as they reached the end of the plank surface.
Atenos and his fellow centurion, leading from the front as always, gripped their shields and pulled them up, covering their front as they now ran onto the makeshift bridge, wary of the fact that there were no rails to either side. One hundred paces long, eight men wide, the bridge stretched across a river deep enough to drown a cavalry unit and fast flowing enough to carry a man to his doom.
As they ran, he kept his eyes on the Pompeian camp ahead, two hundred paces from the end of the bridge. Someone among the enemy had seen the sudden movement and responded, for now men were assembling in centuries and beginning to move to counter the charge. Atenos grinned. They had the advantage of surprise and speed, and were certain now to make the far side before the enemy could reach them. They wouldn’t need the testudo after all. The enemy had been slower moving than he’d anticipated.
As they pounded across the bridge, the enemy moved to a run, attempting to reach them, centuries forming and following on, not waiting for a full legion to be ready.
‘Three men apiece and then on the defensive, remember,’ Atenos bellowed.
He felt, rather than saw, the change in terrain as they reached the far end of the bridge. Rather than the clattering boards, he felt the solid turf of the south bank, and shouted the order to halt. The Tenth pulled up sharp and began to form the shield wall even as their mates bumped into them from behind with the momentum. In moments the Tenth had fanned out into an arc around the south end of the bridge. Shields clattered against one another and the front line edged their blades into the gaps ready, while the second line formed and brought pila up, prepared to stab over the top.
Atenos watched the men coming towards them. They gleamed too much, and their shields were too bright. Freshly painted. New armour and untouched shields. A green, novice legion. He smiled. Well, they wouldn’t be untouched for long.
‘Brace.’
The Pompeian legionaries hit their shield wall like a tide, and Atenos had to give them their due, for they lacked nothing in courage or strength. Still, their lack of experience began to show immediately. The men of the Tenth, many of whom had served in Gaul, Greece and Africa, held their line like professionals, refusing to give any ground under the pressure of the enemy. Their blades jabbed out between shields when any opportunity arose, each time forcing an enemy legionary back, staggering, either wounded or badly bruised through his chain shirt. There was no concerted effort to the enemy attack, and Atenos had to feel for the centurions he could hear and see among the Pompeian legion. Unlike their men, they would be professional veterans, and their voices were angry as they repeated again and again orders to their men to hold, to move together, to keep their shields up, not to over reach, and so on.
The rate of attrition among the enemy was appalling, while few of Atenos’ men suffered. Finally, one of the enemy centurions succeeded in having his men withdraw a step or two, regroup and form up afresh. At his command, they moved forward for a new attempt, but Atenos was ready. Catching Carinus’ eye across the line, he bellowed ‘tilt!’
In a single, well practised manoeuvre, as the enemy legionaries came at them, each men in the Caesarian shield wall stamped their right leg forward, the turning of their bodies tilting their shields and exposing their right side. This allowed each man plenty of space with his blade, and swords lanced, hacked, chopped and slashed all along the line in the sudden freedom. The enemy attack crumbled once more, every second or third man staggering back wounded or ducking away from a blow.
Damage dealt, every defender pulled back their right leg, closed the shields once more and kept their blades visible only through the gaps. As they breathed, the second line took advantage of the enemy’s shock to stab hard with pila, some casting them enthusiastically over into the enemy crowd.
The piles of bodies were beginning to mount, and Atenos realised then that they were in serious danger of winning here. They were only supposed to be making a show of it. If they actually took the bridge and managed to fortify this end, it would make leaving secretly a great deal more difficult. His men were too good, the enemy too green. He had to screw it up somehow.
Even now, planks and stakes were arriving behind them, ready to fortify. Atenos apologised to his gods. There was little he hated more than losing a fight, and doing so on purpose was truly galling, even if there was a solid tactical reason for doing so. He turned and hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Allow them a breach this time. Fall back, else we’ll have to build a wall here.’
His men, realising that they were doing too well for their own good, grinned.
The enemy regrouped, clambering over the piles of their dead, and pushed for the Caesarian line once more. Atenos let them come. He had half a dozen manoeuvres he could pull yet to wear them down, but that really wasn’t the point. Indeed, he could see over the top of the enemy back towards the camp, a veteran legion forming up ready to support the push. Once they got involved, the number of Caesarian casualties would rise phenomenally.
As such, he let his men work. The optios and lead men of each tent party were used to working together, and each man was a veteran, knowing how to make the best of any situation. As the enemy hit their wall, someone in the middle cried out and fell back, as though wounded, his mates pulling him through the second line and into the third. The enemy roared their success and pressed into the gap. Atenos felt pride in his men as he watched them at work. As the flanks pulled back in, edging onto the bridge, the apparent breach in the centre closed once more, denying the enemy, but began to move back, as though caving under the pressure. That was not what they were doing, though, for they moved carefully and slowly back, one step at a time, allowing the extended, curved line to straighten and pull back together, leaving no one stranded beyond the bridge.
Atenos stabbed out at one man desperately trying to leap in among the shields, delivering a blow of which any training officer would be proud, the point jamming into the neck between helmet and chain shirt. As the man fell away, the centurion kept pace with his men, backing away across the bridge one pace at a time. Warnings came forward for any obstruction, and they backstepped carefully over discarded timbers and around barrows and baskets, leaving apparent evidence of their intent to fortify the bridgehead.
Once they were on the bridge and moving, the enemy centurions stopped their own advance, preventing the legion from moving into a fresh attack across the cluttered space. The veteran Pompeian officers were all too aware that any attempt to follow up on their ‘victory’ would undoubtedly land them in very much the same position as the Tenth had just occupied.
Atenos watched with satisfaction as the enemy jeered and whistled, watching the Caesarian force retreat across the bridge. As they reached the north bank once more, they moved across the grass and retreated behind the ramparts, a bank of earth and wicker fence dotted with timber platforms, all of it higher than a man. They passed through the gate, still backstepping as they went, and Atenos turned to see Fronto grinning at him.
‘Bugger me but I thought you were going to try and take them for a while.’
‘Nearly did,’ laughed Atenos.
* * *
Fronto watched the last unit depart and turned to glance back towards the ramparts. He had two hundred men, more or less. Three understrength centuries. He’d chosen them himself for four factors. Firstly they had to be good horsemen. These were the best riders in the Tenth Equestris, for they needed to mount up and race away swiftly. They needed to be good shots with scorpions, onagers and pila, which they were. They had to be longstanding veterans, because that meant both that they could take orders and that they were lucky enough to ensure survival. And lastly, they had to be mad bastards to a man. Mad enough to volunteer for this.
Two hundred men. And they had all been briefed. They would get no sleep this night, and neither would Fronto. He’d had them being very visible. They had lit more torches than usual, and campfires burned all across the deserted camps, an indication to Pompey’s scouts that the force remained in quarters for the night. The two hundred had spent the last three hours marching around palisades and being visible on the platforms. They had been back and forth to collect debris from the fight at the bridge, making themselves very visible. As far as anyone watching from Pompey’s camp would judge, nothing was amiss among the Caesarian forces. Certainly no one would suspect that all bar two hundred had moved out as soon as dusk fell, unburdened by unnecessary kit and moving quietly and fast. They had travelled a mile to the new bridge upstream and had crossed there, arcing out east to pass by the Pompeian force unseen.
Fronto had been timing it carefully, allowing his men their easy ruse, knowing that the break point would come soon. His eyes had been on the eastern dark sky all night, despite having had men watching it for him. They had all been aware that Gnaeus Pompey would have pickets and scouts out, and Caesar’s force would have to overcome at least one of them. If it was noticed, that could ruin the entire ruse, and so Fronto had a distraction ready when required.
Still, it took a moment for him to realise what he’d seen as the distant spark glimmered in the black night, a fire arrow sent up as a signal. That meant Caesar had encountered one of Pompey’s sentries or pickets and was in danger of discovery. Fronto had to move fast. Everything now was about drawing all of Pompey’s attention.
He threw an arm out at the cornicen, who gave two short blasts. The small garrison began to move immediately. New torches burst into life high on the artillery platforms, even as twenty men picked up a mantlet and began to move towards the bridge. Behind them, four men ran, carrying two scorpions between them, two more bringing up boxes of ammunition.
A call went up in the enemy camp almost immediately and figures began to move. Fronto grinned. This would keep them busy. He’d had his artillerists note distances and ranges all afternoon and some of those men who’d been retrieving gear from the bridge had taken the opportunity to mark the range with a coloured stick. There was no need for a command, or for further signals. His men were thoroughly briefed, competent, and knew what they were doing. The men with the covered shelter, holding it up at knee height in the manner of a litter, ran it out onto the bridge, looking as though they intended to reach the enemy camp. Fronto could see Pompeians now hurrying towards the artillery the enemy had put in place only hours earlier. The mantlet reached a position more than halfway across the bridge, marked with a white stick, and was unceremoniously dropped, creating an armoured shelter on the middle of the bridge. In moments the other men had reached it and were putting the scorpions into position, their launching runners lined up with the small slits in the mantlet’s forward facing timber wall.
In moments, they were at work, the men selected as the best scorpion crews in the Tenth. The machines were ratchetted back, loaded, aimed through the slit, and released. Fronto watched with a grin as two men with crests standing on the Pompeian rampart disappeared with a squawk. Even as the two officers fell, the crews were already at work, ratchetting, loading, spotting their prey. They would keep working until the signal, and they were good. No one was safe. As the enemy hurried to get their own artillery working, Fronto watched signifers, officers, scouts, musicians, and even a man with a priest’s folds across his scalp busy blessing the Pompeian artillery, all disappear in a cloud of blood and a scream. They were picking their targets well.
And every moment allowed Caesar to deal with any pickets he found without drawing undue attention and move off to the south, heading for Ategua.
The very moment the enemy shot began to come, the crews leapt into action. Now that they had the Pompeians’ attention, and before they were taken down by enemy artillery, the crews lifted the mantlets and scorpions and moved back twenty paces to the yellow stick marker. Fronto almost laughed as they settled into position again and went back to work. The shots were difficult now for they were at maximum range, but they were his best men. Not bothering to select important targets any more, they now aimed for groups of men, and so still their missiles struck home. The enemy artillery, however, less experienced and well-trained and similarly at maximum range, were falling short of the mantle and flying wide with every launch.
Fronto could almost sense the frustration in the enemy officers, all of whom were now keeping safely out of range. Unable to effectively counter Fronto’s nagging artillery strikes from the bridge, the enemy sent out a half century of legionaries at a run, heading for the bridge to take the scorpions out. Fronto listened for the telltale noises and smiled as his own artillery moved to their response. Even as the two scorpions on the bridge continued to launch at the enemy camp, the platforms all along the rampart began to launch, their missiles falling invariably into that small cloud of running soldiers. He watched as the half century was struck repeatedly, leaving a trail of bodies across the grass, until finally the men lost heart, turned and ran back for their own lines, stripped of half their manpower.
For the next half hour he watched the to-ing and fro-ing of enemy attempts to deal with the irritation, and at one point they succeeded in knocking out an artillerist, though he was swiftly replaced, and once they managed to land a fire shot on the mantle, though that was doused with river water in heartbeats. Finally, one of the sentries reported a second flare way off to the east. The signal that Caesar’s column was clear. The army had crushed a picket post, leaving no survivors to report to Pompey. Caesar was on his way to Ategua with the legions, and Pompey remained unaware, his gaze fixed firmly on the bridge.
At a silent signal from Fronto, new fires were lit in the camp, others fed fresh fuel, cloaks and shapes were propped up by the fence, resembling men in the dark, and finally the crews at the mantlet withdrew, running back across the bridge.
Fronto waited for a while in the strange silence that followed, watching the enemy camp. Finally, someone decided that the Caesarians were done, and a small unit was dispatched to the bridge to remove the mantlet and scorpions. Fronto grinned, gave a wave, and his artillerists made the enemy regret running out into the open once more. Men died in droves as they ran towards the bridge, and once again they gave up halfway and returned to the camp to watch and glower.
Fronto smiled at the centurion standing nearby.
‘I think we’ve warned them off following for a while. Have everyone fall back to the corral as quietly as they can. Let’s put some distance between us and this place before Pompey discovers we’ve gone.’
He smiled all the way to Bucephalus. Two generations of Pompeys had fallen for the same ruse. Now to hit Ategua.