As logical as the strategy sounded, Lucius was skeptical of its success. The attack would call for a measure of discipline and timing he was not sure the Pompeians were capable of. Not to mention the fact that the so-called cohorts would be comprised of centuries not anywhere near full strength. Lucius’s own century had just shy of sixty men, and few fared better. Lucius overheard two former Pompeian centurions standing near him express their own doubts in hushed whispers. No doubt many of the others felt the same way.
“Damn it, I won’t do it,” muttered one tribune, loud enough for the other officers around him to hear, but not Caesar. “He asks us to do the impossible! But when the chips fall, will he be in the thick of the fight with us? No, the blessed consul will be watching comfortably from his yacht while we are all butchered.”
Lucius eyed the officer skeptically. He knew this tribune. His name was Rufio, an officer on Caesar’s staff and often one of his closest advisors. It was odd talk coming from one who was considered an intimate of Caesar, but it certainly got the attention of the others around him. They mumbled their agreement, and the protest quickly spread until the whole assembly was growing petulant.
“What is that noise?” Caesar demanded. “Is there a problem, Tribune Rufio?”
The ruckus was immediately silenced, and Rufio stood obediently at attention.
“No, General,” Rufio said respectfully, as if he had not just been talking treason.
But there was something else, something in Rufio’s expression that did not seem quite natural. Lucius could clearly see the tribune’s face from where he stood, a vantage point that the others did not share. There was something in Rufio’s eyes that spoke of mischief as he stared up at the general. Lucius then followed the tribune’s gaze to Caesar’s face only to discover that the general wore an equally artificial expression. It was subtle, but it was there. Had Lucius not campaigned with Caesar for so long, he never would have noticed it.
There! Had Lucius seen it, or was it just his imagination? The shadow of a smirk crossing the consul’s face for the briefest moment as he glanced back at Rufio.
“Friends,” Caesar finally said to the group. “There is one other thing you must pass on to your men.” Caesar paused, and then raised a fist in the air. “When you go into battle tomorrow, I will lead you!”
At this, the collection of officers erupted in a delirium of wild resounding cheers. Some held swords aloft, others raised their helmets, but all were now firmly behind the man whom they had been doubting only moments before. The shouts of adulation quickly transformed into the repetitive chanting of the general’s name.
“Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!…”
Lucius chuckled inwardly as the former Pompeian officers exhibited an adulation for Caesar that now bordered on worship. But Lucius had not been deceived. He had been with Caesar for far too long. Always the shrewd devil, Caesar had anticipated their very thoughts, and had even planted his own confederate within their ranks to ensure that the seeds of doubt were nurtured and allowed to sprout. And then, with perfect timing, and the perfect words, he had evaporated all of their doubts in a single instant.
III
The next morning, as the first light of the rising sun painted the high clouds crimson, as the dark waters of the harbor began to dance in the early morning breeze, the attack commenced as Caesar had ordered. Three understrength cohorts, totaling no more than six hundred men, assaulted the mole from the eastern harbor. A dozen transports carried the legionaries inshore, driving in until the wooden bellies scraped upon the sand and bumped along the rocks. With a battle cry that could be heard by the reserve cohorts riding in the fleet in the bay, the six hundred legionaries poured over the bows of the transports and began to form ranks on the beach. From the moment the first boot hit the sand, they were taken under fire. A hellish onslaught of javelins and arrows erupted from the entrenchments near the fort and descended on the forming soldiers, piercing mail tunics and seeking out exposed necks, arms and legs. Fresh blood spattered the virgin white sand and the weathered shields of the Sixth Legion. The fifty-two year-old Caesar was with them, leading them. From the deck of his transport, sitting idly offshore with the reserves, Lucius could see the consul’s plumed helmet darting among the clusters of troops, until the three cohorts finally compressed into three giant testudos and Caesar’s plume disappeared inside one. Like three armored beasts, the creeping formations began to move, gliding up over the steep slope and onto the plain to advance on the fort. They had landed from the Roman controlled eastern bay at the stretch of beach where the mole met the mainland. To reach the fort, they needed to cross over the tapered spit of land to the western harbor where the fort sat on a bank commanding the approaches to the south bridge. That meant that every step toward the fort brought them nearer to the Alexandrian ships sitting in the western harbor and hovering near the shoreline like angry wasps ready to strike.
Lucius was certain that the ballista and catapult fire from the enemy ships would break up the testudos, but the giant missiles never came. Arrows and javelins, however, flew by the hundreds, enough to cover nearly every shield in the formation, until the testudos resembled porcupines more than they did tortoises. The three testudos continued the advance, never once stalling, but continuously pressing on under a largely ineffectual enemy barrage. When the formations had approached to within a few paces of the trenches, they suddenly opened. A mass of pila was hurled at the enemy works, and then the flood of Romans charged. Before Lucius could scratch his nose, he saw legionaries in the trenches, gladii rising and falling, and Alexandrians fleeing by the hundred. They seemed to abandon the fort more out of fear than out of defeat, and it wasn’t long before Roman helmets appeared along the parapets.
Some men standing on deck with Lucius cheered at the sight. What had seemed nearly impossible an hour ago, now seemed a reality. Caesar had pulled out a victory, yet again. He had taken the fort, and now every Alexandrian defender was either running for the city or lying dead in the works.
Lucius suddenly noticed that his signifer was by his side, the Wolf’s head adornment atop his helmet pushed back such that the wolf no longer appeared fearsome, but pathetically struggling to hang on to the soldier’s back.
“I tell you plainly, Centurion. I’d have never believed it unless I saw it with my own two eyes. The gods bless him, he was right. By Jupiter, he was right! I’m for Caesar until my dying day, mark you me.”
Lucius did not respond, lest he encourage more of the man’s senseless babbling. Still, the fool was probably only voicing what the rest of his men were thinking. Any of the Pompeian soldiers who had lingering doubts about Caesar’s greatness, would certainly have those doubts no more. Even Lucius was stunned by the ease of the victory. It had all been so simple. Too simple.
Now, all that remained was to turn the fort’s engines against the Alexandrian ships in the western harbor, drive them away from the mole, and land the engineers to fill in the gap. As if on cue, a signal flag fluttered from the fort’s parapets. The two transports sitting idly in the bay, responded immediately, coming to life as their banks of oars rapidly propelled them toward the shore. As soon as they had landed, several score diggers with their axes and spades disembarked and began marching toward the mole.