The Turn of the Tide, page 10
part #7 of Soldier of the Republic Series
“Lucius,” he whispered in a sudden urgent voice. “Lucius, where are you?”
“I am here,” came the sour reply from the darkness nearby. “Where else would I be?”
Crouching beside his friend, Julian quickly exhaled. “Get our men up and ready to move out,” Julian murmured. “We are leaving right now. But keep it to yourself and keep it quiet. It’s just our men - the twenty-five of us.”
“What?” Lucius whispered from the darkness, sounding confused.
“New orders. I will explain later. Just do it and wait for me here,” Julian said in a quiet urgent voice. “I will be back. I need to do something before we leave. Someone else is coming with us too.”
Chapter Seven - Cometh the Hour, Cometh the Man
The Roman camp. On the northern bank of the Ebro, Late spring 211 BCE
“Twenty thousand, five hundred and forty-eight men are still unaccounted for,” the staff officer said solemnly reading from a small wooden tablet. “We have also lost both the Scipio brothers, four hundred odd officers, centurions and fifteen tribunes together with seventy-five percent of our horses, all our baggage train, ninety percent of our military supplies and half our silver reserves.” For a moment the officer paused, as he studied the little neat letters scribbled onto the soft wood. “Together with the thousand rowers that the fleet has been able to spare,” the officer continued at last, “and the wounded men returning to active duty, it leaves us with a grand total of eight and half thousand soldiers still with their banners. Fifteen hundreds of these men are untrained and have never been in combat before. The remaining seven thousand battle-hardened veterans have seen both their commanders slain and their comrades lost. They are all that remains of those who managed to escape the battles of Castulo and Llorca. It’s possible that more parties of survivors will appear over the coming days, but I doubt they will make much difference to the size of our remaining forces,” the officer said slamming shut the small wooden tablet with a bang.
As the officer finished speaking, a sombre, crushing silence descended on the small group of Roman officers standing about in the spacious army tent. For a moment no one was willing to be the first to reply. The men appeared to be close to despair, as they took in the scale of the catastrophe that had befallen them. Wearily, Julian reached up to rub his beard that he had allowed to grow unchecked. The officers gathered together in the tent were all that was left of the Roman command, a pitiful remnant of a once mighty and confident army. A fresh bandage was wrapped around his head wound and Julian appeared to have aged, over the last couple of weeks. Gone was the last glow and flicker of youth - to be replaced by the grave, weathered hardness of a mature man. He and his twenty-three comrades had made it back across the Ebro to the Roman camp after an arduous journey. One of the many small bands of men and individuals who had been able to escape under cover of darkness, before it was too late. Slipping through the Numidian lines, he and the remnants of his company had fled north but there had been no elation when he had finally stumbled into the Roman camp, exhausted and half starving. The memory of the great twin battlefield disasters that had befallen Roman arms was a shattering and demoralising burden, sapping everyone’s strength.
“I have taken command as pro-praetor,” the tribune Lucius Marcius said at last, breaking the silence as he turned to his fellow officers with a grave expression. “As the most senior officer here, it is my duty to rally our men and hold our position. The senate and the Republic sent us to Spain with a job to do. To prevent reinforcements from reaching Hannibal in Italy and that is what we are going to do. We mourn the loss of so many of our brothers in arms. We mourn the loss of two Roman armies and their magnificent commanders. But despite this, nothing has changed. We will continue to fight. That is what we are going to do. We are going to fight. We are going to stop the Carthaginians from breaking through. That is still our task gentlemen. That is our only task.”
“Nothing has changed?” The tribune Fonteius interrupted looking incredulous, holding up his hand, his feverish eyes gleaming as he gazed at his colleague. “I disagree and you are not the most senior officer here. You and I, Marcius are equal in rank and you have no authority to take command. It is not proper for you to do so. It is profoundly illegal.”
“Maybe that it so,” Marcius replied, regarding his colleague coolly, “but this is an emergency and our little army needs a commander. There is no time to write to the senate asking them to confirm my position. Our remaining Iberian allies inform me that three Carthaginian armies are bearing down on our position here. They have over thirty thousand men all told. They are going to be here within a week. Like it or not - we are going to have to fight for our lives.”
“There is another option,” Fonteius said standing his ground. “We could retreat northwards and try to defend Tarraco, and if that fails, we should evacuate our remaining forces by sea. Our fleet still maintains naval superiority and command of the seas. There is no point in throwing away the lives of our remaining men on a hopeless strategic situation.”
“If we abandon the river line now and retreat to Tarraco,” Marcius exclaimed in an annoyed sounding voice, glaring at his colleague, “that will be taken as a sign of weakness by our few remaining Iberian allies. It will only encourage them to swap sides. No. We make our stand here and we fight. We recover our prestige. We drive the Carthaginians back. If we can do that, the tribes will return to our fold and will renew their alliance with us. To have any chance of holding Spain, we need the support of our Spanish and Greek allies. We must show them that we are not yet beaten. That Rome is not finished. So, that is what we are going to do.”
“How are we going to beat three Carthaginian armies,” Fonteius snapped back. “They annihilated Gnaeus at Llorca. They smashed Publius at Castulo. They will outnumber us more than three to one. If our esteemed former commanders, the brothers failed and were killed, what hope do we have - as a band of demoralised and untested troops? Have you seen the state of our soldiers? They are at the end of their tether. They are shattered. No. The war in Spain is lost. We should retreat to Tarraco and make preparations to embark the soldiers on the ships. That is the only sane course of action. Otherwise, there is going to be a third catastrophe and all will be lost, permanently.”
As the tension and disagreement between the two tribunes grew, the remaining Roman officers in the tent started to look increasingly uneasy and unhappy.
“Gentlemen,” Julian suddenly spoke up, his face flush with concern. “Gentlemen. This is not the time for infighting. Marcius is right. We should make our stand here and fight. Spain must not be abandoned. We have come too far to allow that to happen.”
“And what do you know about strategy - centurion,” Fonteius snarled, rounding on Julian. “What do you know. Stay silent when your superiors are in a discussion.”
“Because that was what Gnaeus Scipio wanted. I was there with him at Llorca. I got out the night before Gnaeus and his men were destroyed,” Julian retorted, refusing to be silenced. “But before I did, the pro-consul came to me. He spoke to me. He gave me a message which I was to relay to you all. He told me that the war in Spain had to continue. That we had lost the battle, but not the war. That whoever took command after him, should continue to fight and do the job the Republic had tasked them with. That was our sacred duty he said. So Marcius has my support. All of you should give him your support.”
For a long moment a tense silence filled the tent. Then Fonteius drew a sharp draw of breath and gave Julian a sceptical look.
“Really. The pro consul said that to you?” He snapped.
“He did,” Julian nodded. “I swear it on the heads of every single one of my ancestors. It’s the truth. He ordered me to leave. To relay this message to you all. Gnaeus wanted us to fight on. Those were his final orders.”
Again, a tense silence settled on the gathering inside the tent. Then at last Fonteius shook his head before quickly glancing at Marcius.
“This is not settled,” Fonteius growled. “You have no authority to take command. The matter should be put to a vote. Every one of our men should be able to vote on who takes command. Whether its you or me.”
“Fine,” Marcius said gazing back at his colleague. “We shall conduct a vote. Two candidates. You and me. Every man shall be equal, but the vote must be taken before the end of the day. There is little time left if we are to make defensive preparations. The Carthaginians are advancing towards us. They intend to wipe us out. To drive us into the sea.”
“Agreed,” Fonteius said curtly, before rapidly stomping out of the tent followed by a few of the other officers.
***
Julian was overseeing the work parties labouring away on improving the Roman camp’s fixed defences, when he caught sight of the supply convoy rolling towards the camp from the direction of the coast. It was late in the morning and across the clear blue skies the sun was a burning ball of fire. Peering at the lumbering column of ox-drawn wagons and their small escort, he left his post and hurried across the field towards the newcomers. Catching sight of Lucius leading the small escort, Julian veered towards him, hailing him.
“All well?” Julian called out, as he fell in beside his friend. In response the big man nodded before turning his head and glancing back at the convoy of wagons loaded with fresh supplies.
“Yup,” Lucius replied cheerfully. “Easy as a Massalian whore. At least we are not going to starve. The fleet has brought us a shed load of food. And there is more coming. Marcius has got me returning to the coast to escort and pick up another convoy tomorrow. You got to hand it to those Greek colonists in Tarraco and Emporiae,” Lucius added. “They keep their promises and they certainly know how to organise an efficient supply run. I reckon we have enough food here to feed the whole camp for weeks. There are some new weapons and equipment too, to replace that which we lost. And a party of new recruits. Rowers,” Lucius said giving Julian an amused grin. “They are back over there - shitting themselves with fear. I don’t think any of them have ever held or used a sword or shield before.”
“Good,” Julian said hurriedly glancing down the column. Then he turned his attention back to Lucius. “Listen,” he said, “there is a dispute between who should be in command. It’s between Marcius and Fonteius. There is going to be an election. Every soldier gets an equal vote but it must be done by nightfall.” For a moment Julian paused. “Marcius needs to win this vote,” he continued at last in an earnest voice. “It’s really important he does. He has the right idea. He is the right man for the job. So I need you to start spreading the word among your friends - and I know you are a popular man Lucius. I need you to tell your friends to vote for Marcius. Will you do that? Marcius must be elected our commander. If Fonteius gets command everything we have achieved here in Spain will be undone. That is not what Gnaeus Scipio had in mind. It must not come to that.”
For a moment Lucius did not reply as he thoughtfully gazed at the Roman camp in the distance. Then he turned to Julian and nodded.
“Sure,” the big man replied. “I can do that. Some of the boys have taken to calling me your wife because I always do what you tell me to do,” Lucius added with an amused look. “But what do they know.”
“You understand,” Julian said carefully, looking serious, “that this is not an order. You are free to make up your own mind on this issue.”
“I know,” Lucius responded cheerfully, “you don’t always make the right choices Julian. Sometimes you can be a bit of an arse but most of the time your judgement is sound. I trust you. Marcius has my vote. It’s done. I will speak to the boys - spread the word.”
Nodding his gratitude but saying nothing Julian kept pace with his standard bearer as they approached the camp.
“Permission to speak plainly Sir?” Lucius said suddenly.
At Lucius’s side Julian gave his friend a cautious searching glance feeling a familiar sense of foreboding. When Lucius called him Sir it generally meant he had something serious and important to say.
“Go on.”
“Well,” Lucius continued glancing at Julian as his smile faded, “I have been thinking. Now that we are having this chat. Tell me honestly Sir. After we escaped from Castulo. What was the real reason we headed for Gnaeus Scipio’s camp and did not make straight for the Ebro like most of the other survivors did? Was it because of duty, like you told us or was it because you wanted to save Bion? If the latter, then you deliberately chose to put two hundred men in mortal danger to save a friend. Bion, is a good man, a friend of mine too, but that is still a shitty decision Sir. You must have realised those boys with Gnaeus were doomed after our defeat. You must have known the risks.”
Walking along at Lucius’s side Julian did not immediately reply - stoically turning instead to look away in the direction of the Ebro. “Now you are talking a load of bullshit,” Julian muttered at last, before starting to make his way back across the field towards the work parties fortifying the Roman camp. “Just make sure that the boys know to vote for Marcius,” Julian called out over his shoulder. “That will be all standard bearer.”
***
It was afternoon and Julian was busy supervising the hundreds of men digging a V shaped trench around the outer ramparts of the Roman camp. All around him feverish activity was taking place. Along the earth embankment, topped with a sturdy wooden palisade that formed the camp’s perimeter - rows of fire-hardened, blackened stakes had been driven into the ground pointing outwards at a forty-five-degree angle. Pausing to look around at the work, Julian grunted in satisfaction. The camp was slowly but steadily being transformed into an impregnable fortress. Marcius’s orders were still being carried out. But for how long? For a moment he gazed at a party of men who had arrived to relieve their comrades. The soldiers had taken to the election with gusto, voluntarily relieving their colleagues, so that all could go off to cast their vote. Glancing up at the position of the sun, Julian took a deep breath. There were still some hours to go before dark. It was impossible to know what the result was going to be.
Suddenly, through the mass of activity he caught sight of Bion hurrying towards him. The unmistakable figure was accompanied by a stranger, but the men were too far away to properly see who the second person was. Gazing at his short friend, Julian sighed with sudden secret guilt as he recalled Lucius’s rebuke. But there was nothing wrong with having saved his friend’s life, he thought. He had got his men out. He had succeeded in the end. He had done right. Once Gnaeus Scipio had ordered him to escape, he could not just leave Bion behind to face almost certain death. The dwarf was one of his best friends.
As the two men drew closer, Julian softly swore to himself as he recognised the second man. It was Caciro, the Iberian guide who had led him to the site for the Roman camp when Publius’s army had been nearing Castulo. What was he doing here? He had not been expecting to see the Iberian guide again, after the Roman rout and disaster. For a moment Julian studied the Spaniard. The man was small but sturdy; barefoot and dark haired with a distinctive green face tattoo of a snake covering his forehead. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties and was clad in a simple white woollen tunic, common among the local tribes. From his belt hung a small Spanish knife.
“Julian,” Bion gasped as if he was out of breath, his chest heaving. “I have been looking for you all over.”
“Any news on the vote?” Julian said guardedly.
“Not yet,” Bion exclaimed. “The priests who are organising the count are being tight-lipped. But I think its going to be close. We will know in a few hours.”
Nodding - Julian said nothing, waiting for Bion to explain his presence.
“Julian,” Bion said, quickly gesturing at Caciro who was standing beside him, gazing back at Julian with a silent and unreadable expression. “He arrived outside the gates this morning. He was asking for you, but the guards would not let him in. In the end the soldiers called me out to deal with him. As if they think its the job of the fucking chief army translator to deal with everyone who shows up at our gates. Anyway,” Bion added sourly, “here he is.”
“I remember your name, centurion,” Caciro suddenly spoke up in Latin, looking composed and impassive as he took a step towards Julian. “I have come to the Roman camp because I need a job. Will you give me a job?”
“A job,” Julian exclaimed with a frown.
“I am a hunter,” Caciro explained. “I can follow tracks. I know the country and its people, their customs. I speak the language. I am a good guide. I can be very useful to you.” For a moment the Iberian paused, his expression revealing nothing as to what he was thinking. “I can also be very funny,” he added without smiling. “I can tell many funny stories.”
“Fuck me,” Bion swore softly, as he turned to look away. “As if we need another comedian around here.”
For a moment Julian did not reply as he sized the man up.
“Why?” Julian said at last. “Why come to us now? Carthage advances. Rome retreats.”
“Carthage treated my family badly,” Caciro said, eyeing Julian solemnly. “Their soldiers raped and murdered my sister. I am no friend of Carthage and I need the money. I am a trustworthy man.”
“So the enemy of your enemy is your friend?” Julian snapped.
“Something like that,” Caciro replied, stoically standing his ground, his eyes gleaming. “So will you give me a job?”
Once again Julian hesitated. Quickly he glanced at Bion who just shrugged in reply, looking unconcerned.
“Alright,” Julian said turning back to Caciro, “I will see what I can do. Come back tomorrow at dawn and I should have an answer for you then.”
***
The tension among the group of army officers was palpable, as one by one, the three silent, dignified looking priests trooped into the tent. Outside the tent, darkness had come, and in the eerie glow of the soldiers’ campfires and the strong pervasive smell of wood smoke, the camp was settling down for the night. As all eyes expectantly gazed at the priests Julian bit his lip. The priests, clad in their distinctive robes, were giving nothing away. Quietly they came up to the wooden table in the middle of the tent and reverently placed a heavy looking wax tablet upon it. Then the chief priest turned to Marcius and Fonteius with a solemn expression.
