The Gods of War (14 page)

Suetonius remained silent. He thought he could hear fear in Cicero's warnings and he scorned the old man's worries. If Pompey triumphed, Suetonius would know only joy, even if it led to an empire begun on the fields of Greece. Caesar was outnumbered and would soon be hungry. Even to suggest that Pompey might not win was an insult. He could not resist a final barb.

“Perhaps your new order will need younger blood, Senator.”

The old man's gaze didn't waver.

“If the time for wisdom and debate has passed, then the gods help us all,” he said.

         

Brutus and Seneca rode together at the head of a host of legions that blackened the countryside of Greece for miles. For once, Seneca was silent and Brutus suspected he was thinking of the orders from Labienus and what they would mean. Though in theory it was an honor to lead the vast army, both men knew the test of loyalty was likely to leave them dead on the field after the first charge.

“At least we don't have to tread through dung like the rest of them,” Brutus said, glancing over his shoulder.

Seneca forced a tense smile. The legions were separated from each other by thousands of pack animals and carts, and it was true that those further back would march a path made deeply unpleasant by their passing.

Somewhere ahead of them were the legions that had landed at Oricum, led by a general whose name was almost a byword for victory in the army. Every man there had followed the reports from Gaul, and even with the advantage of numbers, there were few who thought the battles to come would be anything but brutal.

“I think Pompey is going to waste us,” Seneca said, almost too quietly for Brutus to hear. As he felt his general's eyes on him, he shrugged in the saddle. “When I think of how far I've come since Corfinium, I would rather we were not slaughtered in the first moments of battle just to test your loyalty.”

Brutus looked away. He had been thinking the same thing and was still struggling to find a solution. Labienus's Fourth legion marched close behind his cohorts and the orders had been painfully clear. Any creative interpretation would invite a swift destruction from their own rear. Though it would throw Pompey's initial attack into confusion, Brutus knew Labienus was quite capable of such a ruthless act, and it was all he could do not to look behind to see if the general was watching him. He felt the scrutiny as much as he had in Dyrrhachium and it was beginning to grate on his nerves.

“I doubt our beloved leader will order a straight thrust against the enemy,” he said at last. “He knows Julius will be planning and scheming for advantage and Pompey has too much respect to go in at the charge when we meet. Julius—” He caught himself and shook his head angrily. “Caesar will likely have trapped and spiked the ground, dug pits and hidden flanking forces wherever there is cover. Pompey won't let him have that advantage. Wherever we find them will be a trap, I guarantee it.”

“Then we will be the men who die discovering it,” Seneca said grimly.

Brutus snorted. “There are times when I forget your lack of experience, which is a compliment, by the way. Pompey will take up a position nearby and send out scouts to test the ground. With Labienus to advise him, we won't be sent in until there's a sweet wide path for us all to thunder through. I'd stake my life on it, if Labienus hadn't done so already.” He laughed as Seneca's spirits visibly improved. “Our legions haven't charged in like madmen since Hannibal and his bastard elephants, Seneca. We
learn
from mistakes, while every new enemy is facing us for the first time.”

Seneca's smile faltered. “Not Caesar, though. He knows Pompey as well as anyone. He knows us.”

“He doesn't know me,” Brutus said sharply. “He
never
knew me. And we'll break him, Seneca.”

He saw Seneca's grip on the reins was tight enough to make his knuckles white and wondered if the man was a coward. If Renius had been there, he would have snapped something to stiffen the young officer's courage, but Brutus could not find the words he needed.

He sighed. “If you want, I can send you back before the first charge. There'll be no shame in it. I can order you to take a message to Pompey.” The idea amused him and he went on. “Something like ‘Now look what you've done, you old fool.' What do you think?”

Seneca didn't laugh, instead looking at the man who rode so confidently beside him. “No. These are my men. I'll go where they go.”

Brutus reached over between the horses and clapped him on the shoulder. “It has been a pleasure to serve with you, Seneca. Now stop worrying. We're going to win.”

                                                      
CHAPTER
13
                                                      

D
espite the heavy winter cloak that protected him from the worst of the cold, Pompey felt frozen into his armor. The only heat seemed to be in the bitter liquid that roiled and surged in his throat and bowels, making him weak. The fallow fields were littered with ice-split clods and progress was painfully slow. As a young man, he remembered being able to shrug off the worst extremes of campaigning, but now it was all he could do to clench his jaw and prevent his teeth from chattering audibly. Twin plumes of vapor came from his horse's nostrils and Pompey reached down absentmindedly to pat its neck. His mind was on the army he could see in the distance.

He could not have asked for a better vantage point. Caesar's legions had stationed themselves forty miles east of Oricum, at the end of a plain surrounded by forests. Pompey's scouts had reached a crest of rising ground and immediately reported back to the main force, passing Brutus and Seneca without a sideways glance. Pompey had come forward to confirm their sighting and now he watched in suspicious silence.

The biting air was at least clear of mist. Though Caesar's forces must have been two miles away, they stood out against the scrub grass of the plain. From so far, they looked a pitiful threat, like tiny metallic brooches pinned to the hard ground. They were as still as the patchy forest that covered the hillsides, and Pompey frowned.

“What is he
doing
?” he muttered from between clenched teeth.

There was a part of him that had felt joy at finding the enemy within reach, but his more natural caution had reasserted itself. Julius would never stake his survival on a simple clash of arms. The plain where he had gathered his army was good land for a charge and Pompey knew his cavalry could smash through the smaller number of extraordinarii Julius had brought to Greece. It was far too tempting and Pompey shook his head.

“How many legions can you count, Labienus?” he said.

“Only six, sir,” Labienus replied immediately. From his sour expression, Pompey could see he shared the same doubts.

“Then where is the seventh? What are they busy doing while we stand here watching the rest? Send the scouts wide. I want them found before we move on.”

Labienus gave the order and the fastest of their cavalry horses galloped out in all directions.

“Have we been seen?” Pompey asked.

In answer, Labienus pointed to where a distant horseman was trotting along the rocky tree line that bordered the plain. As the two men watched, the man raised a flag and signaled to Julius's forces.

“I don't like it,” Pompey said. “Those woods could hide anything. Yet it looks so much like a trap, I wonder if that is the conclusion he wants us to draw.”

“You have men to spare, sir. With your permission, I will send a single legion out to test them—perhaps the cohorts with General Brutus, sir.”

“No. Too few would not spring the trap, if it is one. He would let them close and then destroy them. We would lose men for nothing. I am reluctant to send more until I am better informed. Tell the men to stand down until the scouts return. Get a hot meal inside them and tell them to be ready for anything.”

The wind was increasing in force as the day waned. Dyrrhachium was a long way behind them and Pompey knew his men were tired. Perhaps it was better to set up hostile camps for the night and move on at dawn. He suspected Labienus was not impressed by his caution, but Pompey could still remember Julius gathering the old Primigenia legion around him and making them the core of his famous Tenth. Even those who hated Caesar admitted his ability to seize success against the odds. His skill could be read in the reports, and Pompey knew Julius was one of those rare ones who kept a sense of a battle even as it raged around him. Gaul had not fallen on its own, nor the shores of Britain. His men gave him their first loyalty, above the Senate and Rome. When he asked them to die, they went because he was the one asking. Perhaps because of that faith, they had become used to victory. Labienus had never even met the man, and Pompey was determined not to be another name on the list of those Julius had broken. His stomach twisted with a pang and he shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.

“Sir! They are moving east!” one of the scouts called out, just as Pompey became aware of it himself. Ten heartbeats after the enemy legions began to shift, the distant whisper of their horns reached them, almost lost on the wind.

“Your opinion, General?” Pompey murmured.

“They could be trying to draw us in,” Labienus said doubtfully.

“That is my feeling,” Pompey replied. “Have the scouts keep the widest chains back to us as we move around it. I want them in sight of each other at all times.”

Labienus cast a concerned glance at the thick woodland that gripped the earth in patches all around them. Even in winter, the branches formed an impenetrable mass and it would be difficult to stay in contact on that terrain.

“It will be dark in only a few hours, sir,” he said.

“Do the best you can with the daylight left to us,” Pompey snapped. “I want them to feel us breathing down their necks as night comes. Let them fear what we will do when they can no longer see us. Tomorrow will be long enough to kill them all.”

Labienus saluted and rode clear to give the orders. The legionaries who had already begun to huddle together in expectation of a meal were called to their feet by centurions. Labienus chose not to hear the muttered complaints of the rank and file as he rode through to pass the word to the officers. Soldiers loved to criticize the hardship of their lives, he knew, but these were experienced men and it was almost out of habit rather than any real feeling. From the beginning, they had known a winter campaign would be a test of their fitness and endurance. He did not expect them to fail.

As the great column began to move, Brutus rode back past the lines of scouts, his silver armor drawing the eye of Pompey's officers. He was flushed with some emotion and rode with effortless skill. Pompey saw him approach and his expression became subtly tauter, his mouth a pale line in the tanned skin.

Brutus drew up beside Pompey's horse, saluting quickly. “Sir, my men are ready to attack. With your order, I will let them loose.”

“Return to your position, General,” Pompey replied, wincing as his stomach spasmed. “I will not send a charge over ground he has had time to prepare.”

Brutus showed no reaction to the dismissal. “He's moving now, sir, and that is a mistake. He hasn't had time to trap the whole area.” Pompey's expression did not change and Brutus spoke more urgently. “He knows us both, sir. He will expect us to wait and judge his plans before we strike. If we go in now, we can wound them before it gets dark. By the time we must withdraw, we will have raised morale with a victory and damaged his confidence.”

When Brutus finished, Pompey made a small gesture with his hand on the reins. Labienus took the cue, riding up to Brutus's right side.

“You have your orders, General,” he said.

Brutus glanced at him and for an instant Labienus stiffened at what he saw there. Then Brutus saluted once more and rode back to the front ranks.

Pompey drummed his fingers on the high pommel of his saddle, a sign of the tension Brutus had created. Labienus did not break the silence of the march, allowing Pompey the privacy of his own thoughts.

The scouts reported every hour to keep them on course when line of sight became impossible for the main force. The winter night was coming quickly and Pompey waited with growing impatience for the enemy legions to call a halt.

“If they don't stop soon, they will be spending the night in the open,” Pompey said irritably. “Half of them will freeze to death.”

He squinted through the shadows of trees into the distance, though there was nothing visible. The enemy had vanished in the gloom, but the most distant of the scouting riders still reported their progress back down the line. Pompey clenched his jaw against the cold and wondered if this too was a test. Perhaps Julius was hoping to lose them, or simply march them to death over the Greek plains.

“They may have already prepared a camp, sir,” Labienus said.

His lips were numb and he knew Pompey would have to let the men rest or start seeing them drop. He smothered any sign of his irritation as Pompey rode on as if unaware of the suffering of those around him. He did not want to prompt his commander, but if they did not make camp soon they risked losing the edge they had worked so hard to gain.

The sound of galloping hooves distracted both men from their thoughts and the cold. “They have halted, sir!” the scout reported. “A small party are riding toward us.”

Pompey raised his head like a dog with a scent. “How many?” he demanded.

Even in the last gray light, Labienus could see the scout was frozen to the point of barely staying in the saddle. He moved his own horse closer and took the reins from the younger man's stiff fingers. “Your general asked you how many were coming,” he said.

The scout blinked, summoning his wits. “Three, sir, under a flag of truce,” he replied.

“Order a hostile camp, Labienus,” Pompey said, at last. “I want high walls around us by the time they arrive. No doubt they will report every detail to Caesar on their return. Let there be nothing out of place.” He paused and straightened his back to conceal his discomfort. “Send my physician to me. I need a little of his chalk and milk to settle my stomach.”

Labienus sent men running to fulfill the order. Weary and cold as they were, the army of fifty thousand would make short work of the walled camps. It was almost second nature to them after so long in training, and he was pleased as the squares began to take shape. The sound of axes chopping into trees was as familiar as home to him, and he began to relax. Pompey had left it late, Labienus acknowledged to himself. Part of the work would be finished in the dark and there would be accidents.

The three men Caesar had sent to speak to Pompey worried him far more. What was there to say at this late stage? It could not be to surrender before a single spear had been thrown in anger. Labienus grimaced in the gloom as he considered sending a few of his cavalry out to make the group disappear. He did not fear the consequences, knowing that if the bodies were well hidden, Pompey would think it had been a ruse, or a delaying tactic. Labienus had loyal men he could trust to kill them in the dark and then it would just be another tiny mystery, quickly forgotten.

The alternative was to feed what he now saw as Pompey's fear of this enemy. The confidence that had drawn Labienus to him on their first meetings seemed to have vanished with the news of the landing at Oricum. Labienus had seen the way he pressed a hand into his stomach, and he feared the sickness was affecting more than his health and temper. Pompey had aged before them all and Labienus was faced with a role as second in command that went far beyond anything he had expected.

He was on the point of calling men he knew over to him when one of the scouts reported. The three riders had reached the mile perimeter and were being escorted in. Labienus let his hand fall, irritated that his own hesitation had stolen the chance. Perhaps that was the secret of Caesar's genius, he thought, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. Those who faced him tied themselves in knots guessing what he would try next. Labienus wondered if he would prove as vulnerable as Pompey seemed to be and took heart from the city of soldiers they had brought out of the north. No matter what cleverness Caesar summoned to the field, he had never faced Roman legions in their full strength. Gaul would not have prepared him for their onslaught.

By the time the three riders appeared out of the darkness, the camps were taking shape. Thousands of legionaries had dug trenches and banked earth to the height of two men. Every tree for miles around had been cut and pegged, sawn and strapped into place. Banks of earth and grass sod buttressed the columns, proof against fire and enemy missiles. They built fortresses out of nothing in just hours, havens of order and safety in the wilderness. Torches stood on iron stands all around the camp and lit the night in flickering yellow. Labienus could smell meat cooking on the night wind and his empty stomach creaked. His own needs would have to wait a little longer and he forced down his body's weakness.

He waited for the three riders as they were passed through the scout lines into the camp, noting the insignia of the Tenth legion and their centurion's armor. Julius had sent senior men to speak to Pompey, Labienus observed. They had been forced to walk through the defensive rings with drawn blades at their backs. Labienus watched them with narrowed eyes. At his order, their horses were taken and the three soldiers quickly surrounded.

Labienus walked across the frozen ground toward them. They exchanged a glance as he approached, and their leader spoke first.

“We have come at the order of Gaius Julius Caesar, consul of Rome,” he said. The centurion stood confidently as if he were not ringed with men willing to cut him down at the first sudden move.

“You seem a little blunt for diplomacy, soldier,” Labienus replied. “Speak your message, then. I have a meal waiting.”

The centurion shook his head. “Not to you, Labienus. The message is for Pompey.”

Labienus regarded the men, his face showing nothing of his irritation. He had not missed the fact that his name was known to them and wondered how many spies Caesar had in Greece. He really should have had them killed before they had reached his position, Labienus thought ruefully.

“You may not approach the general with weapons, gentlemen,” he said.

They nodded, and removed swords and daggers, letting them fall at their feet. The wind howled around them and the nearest torches fluttered madly.