The Gods of War (15 page)

“Remove the rest of your clothes and I will have more brought to you.”

The three men looked angry, but they did not resist and were soon shivering and naked. Their skins showed each of them had fought for years, collecting a web of scars. The man who had spoken had a particularly fine collection and Labienus thought Caesar must have excellent healers for him to have survived. They stood without embarrassment and Labienus felt a touch of admiration at how they refused to hunch against the cold. Seeing their arrogance, he considered ordering a more intimate search, but decided against it. Pompey would be wondering about the delay as it was.

Slaves brought rough wool shifts, which the centurions draped over their skins, already turning blue.

Labienus examined their sandals for anything unusual and then shrugged and tossed them back.

“Escort them to camp one—to the command tent,” he said.

He watched their faces closely, but the men were as impassive as the soldiers around them. Labienus knew his meal would have to wait a little longer. He was too curious to find out why Caesar would send valuable men to such a meeting.

         

Camp one contained eleven thousand soldiers and the key links in the command chain. It was surrounded by four others of similar size, so that from above they would look like the petals of a flower drawn by a child. Three roads crossed the heart of the camp and as Labienus walked along the Via Principalis toward Pompey's command tent, he noted how the centurions took in every detail around them. He frowned at the thought that they would carry their observations back to an enemy and once again considered having them quietly dispatched. Rather than waste another chance, he broke away from the escort and gave quick instructions to a tribune from his own Fourth legion. Without hesitation, the man saluted and went to gather a dozen others for the task. Labienus hurried along the main road to catch up with Caesar's men, feeling better about their mission.

The praetorium tent was an enormous leather construction near the northern gate of the camp. Reinforced with beams and taut with ropes, it was as solid as a stone building and proof against rain or gale. The whole area was well lit with oil torches partially shielded by a lattice of iron. Their flames streamed out with the wind, casting odd shadows as Labienus reached his men and had them halt outside. He gave the password of the day to the outer guards and ducked inside, finding Pompey in discussion with a dozen of his officers. The tent was simply furnished, with one long table and an ornate oak chair for Pompey. Benches rested against the walls for meetings and it had a spartan air of which Labienus approved. More important, the tent was far warmer than the outside. Braziers glowed on the packed earth, making the air thick and sluggish with heat. Labienus felt sweat break out on his skin at the sudden change.

“You've brought them
here
?” Pompey asked. His hand crept toward his stomach as he spoke.

“I've stripped and searched them, sir. With your permission, I will have my men bring them in.”

Pompey gestured to the maps that lay across a heavy table and one of the officers quickly gathered them into neat scrolls. When there was nothing important visible, he seated himself carefully, twitching his toga into perfect folds over his legs.

The three centurions held themselves well as they came into Pompey's presence. Even dressed as they were, their short-cropped hair and scarred arms marked them immediately for what they were. The escort kept their weapons bared as they took positions around the walls of the tent and left the three men facing Pompey. Labienus found himself breathing more heavily as he waited, his hunger forgotten.

“So tell me what Caesar has to say that is so important as to risk your lives,” Pompey said.

In the silence, only the crackle of the braziers could be heard.

The centurion who had spoken before took a step forward and, as one, the guards in the tent went from stillness to a knife edge of danger. He glanced around at them and raised his eyes for a moment as if he was amused by their stance.

“My name is Decimus, sir. Centurion of the Tenth legion. We have met once before, in Ariminum.”

“I remember you,” Pompey said. “At the meeting with Crassus. You were there when Caesar brought gold back from Gaul.”

“I was, sir. Consul Caesar preferred to send a man you would recognize to show his good faith.”

Despite the neutral tone, Pompey colored with anger immediately. “Do not use a false title in my presence, Decimus. The man you follow does not have the right to claim consul in front of me.”

“He was elected by the voting centuries, sir, in accordance with the most ancient traditions. He claims his authority and rights as given him by the citizens of Rome.”

Labienus frowned, wondering what Decimus could hope to achieve by antagonizing Pompey so early in the meeting. He could not escape the worrying thought that the words were intended for the other men there, who could be counted upon to discuss them with friends and colleagues. As if he shared the suspicion, Pompey glanced around the men in the tent, his eyes narrowing.

“As Dictator, even false consuls are answerable to my orders, Decimus, but I suspect you are not here to argue that point.”

“No, sir. I have been ordered here to request that soldiers loyal to Rome leave this camp and either quit the field or join Caesar's legions against you.”

There was immediate uproar. Pompey rose from his seat and at his signal all three men were hammered to their knees by the guards closest to them. None of them made a sound. Pompey controlled himself with difficulty.

“Your master is insolent, Decimus. There are no traitors here.”

Decimus looked a little dazed from a blow to the back of his head. He raised a hand to rub where he had been struck and then thought better of the action. The guards around him were eager to cut him down at any provocation.

“In that case, I have his authority to offer peace, sir. For the good of Rome, he asks that you listen.”

Pompey remembered his dignity with difficulty. He raised his hand in preparation for ordering the deaths of the centurions, and Decimus watched its movement, his eyes glittering in the light of the torches.

“Be warned, Decimus,” Pompey said at last. “I will not be rebuked in my own camp. Choose your words carefully or you will be killed.”

Decimus nodded. “Caesar wishes it to be known that he serves Rome above his own safety or ambition. He does not wish to see her armies broken against each other and so leave the city poorly defended for a generation. He offers peace, if certain conditions are met.”

Pompey clenched the fist he held up and one of the men with Decimus flinched slightly, expecting to feel cold iron in his back at any moment. Decimus did not respond to the threat, and as Pompey held his gaze they all heard voices raised outside the tent.

An instant later, Cicero entered with two other senators, sweeping into the warmth with crystals of ice on their cloaks. They were pale with the cold, but Cicero took in the scene before him immediately. He bowed to Pompey.

“General, I have come to represent the Senate at this meeting.”

Pompey glowered at the old man, unable to dismiss him while the three centurions watched.

“You are welcome, Cicero. Labienus, draw up a bench for the senators, that they may witness the impertinence of Caesar.”

The senators settled themselves and Decimus raised his eyebrows in inquiry. “Should I repeat myself, General?” he said.

His calm was unnatural for a man with sharp iron at his neck, and Labienus wondered if he had chewed one of the roots that were said to dull fear. Pompey resumed his seat and his long fingers fussed with the lines of his toga while he thought.

“Caesar has offered peace,” he said to Cicero. “I suspect it is yet another attempt to sow discord amongst our men.”

Decimus bowed his head for a moment and took a deep breath. “My master claims the rights granted him by the people of Rome in lawful election. With those rights, he accepts the responsibility to avoid a war if it is possible. He fears that a conflict between us would leave Greece stripped and Rome undefended. He thinks first of Rome.”

Cicero leaned forward like an old hawk. “But there is a sting to be borne, yes? I would not expect Caesar to brave our fleet to reach Greece and then meekly give up his ambition.”

Decimus smiled. “No, Senator. He looks for a peaceful resolution only because he would not see Rome weakened.”

“What does he offer?” Cicero said.

Pompey flushed at the old man's interruptions, but pride prevented him from showing his anger in front of his most senior officers.

As if he sensed Pompey's discomfort, Decimus turned away from Cicero and addressed Pompey directly. “Caesar offers a truce between the two armies. No man will be punished or held responsible for his officers at this time.”

He took another deep breath and Labienus tensed, sensing the strain Decimus was under.

“He asks only that Pompey take a small honor guard and leave Greece, perhaps to peaceful allies. His army will return to their posts and no harm will come to them for taking arms against the lawfully elected consul of Rome.”

Pompey rose once again, standing over the kneeling men. His voice was choked with fury. “Does your master think I would accept a peace under those terms? I would rather be ashes than take my life at his generosity!”

Labienus looked around at the other men in the tent. He was bitter with regret and knew he should have had the men killed before they could reach Pompey. Who could tell what damage the offer might achieve by the time it had spread to the lowest ranks?

“I will let him know your response, General,” Decimus said.

Pompey shook his head, his expression hard. “No, you will
not
,” he said. “Kill them.”

Cicero rose in horror and Decimus too stood up as he heard the order. A legionary stepped toward the centurion and with a sneer Decimus opened his arms to receive the blade.

“You are not
fit
to lead Rome,” he said to Pompey, gasping as the gladius was shoved hard into his chest.

The pain distorted his features and yet he did not fall, but reached out to the hilt with both hands. Holding Pompey's gaze, Decimus pulled it further into himself, letting loose an animal cry of rage. As the other two had their throats opened, Decimus collapsed and the sickly smell of blood filled the tent. Some of the men made the hand gesture against evil spirits, and Pompey himself was shaken by the man's extraordinary courage. He seemed to have shrunk in his chair and he could not tear his gaze from the bodies at his feet.

It was left to Labienus to give orders and he had the dead men removed, the guards following them. He could not believe what he had seen Decimus do, or his complete disregard for his own death. Caesar had chosen wisely in sending such a man, he was forced to acknowledge. Before dawn, every soldier in Pompey's camp would have heard of the centurion's words and actions. Above all things, they respected courage. Labienus frowned as he thought how best to handle the spread of information. Could he blunt the force of the tale with a counter rumor? It would be difficult, with so many witnesses. He knew his soldiers. Some of them would indeed wonder if they followed the right man.

As he stepped out into the howling wind and pulled his cloak more tightly around him, he could applaud the use of three lives for such an effect. They faced a ruthless enemy, and when it came he would relish Caesar's eventual destruction all the more.

He looked away into the distance as he considered his own commander. Labienus had known men who survived for years with ulcers or hernias. He remembered an old tentmate who delighted in showing a shiny lump that stood out from his stomach, even taking coins from those who wanted to force it back in with a finger. Labienus hoped Pompey's illness was not the source of his weakening spirits. If it was, there could only be worse to come.

                                                      
CHAPTER
14
                                                      

J
ulius could not remember ever having been so cold. Knowing he would make the crossing to Greece in winter, he had paid for his men to be outfitted in the best cloaks and woolen layers for their hands and feet. After marching through the night with only a few mouthfuls of rubbery meat to keep up his strength, his very thoughts seemed to flow more slowly, as if his mind was sluggish with ice.

The night had passed without catastrophe as his legions took a wide berth around Pompey's camp. The gibbous moon had given them enough light to make good progress, and his veterans had stuck to the task doggedly, without a word of complaint.

He had met with Domitius's legion ten miles west of Pompey's camp and delayed two hours there while the cart animals were bullied and struck into movement. They too had been sheltered with blankets from the stores and they had eaten better than the men.

As dawn came he could only estimate how far north they had come. Pompey's army would be preparing to march against an abandoned position and it could not be long before his absence was discovered. Then they would be hunted, by men who were rested and well fed. It would not take long for Pompey to guess his destination, and seven legions left a trail that could hardly be disguised. Their iron-shod sandals beat the earth into a wide road a child could find.

“I . . . I do not remember Greece being this cold,” Julius stammered to the muffled figure of Octavian at his side. The younger man's features were hidden by so much cloth that only the plume of white breath proved he was somewhere within the mass.

“You said a legionary should rise above the discomforts of the body,” Octavian replied with a slight smile.

Julius glanced at him, amused that his relative appeared to remember every conversation they had ever had.

“Renius told me that a long time ago,” he confirmed. “He said he'd seen dying men march all day before they fell. He said the true strength was in how far we could ignore the flesh. I sometimes think the man was a Spartan at heart, except for the heavy drinking.” He looked back at the column of his legions as they marched in grim silence. “I hope we can outrun our pursuers.”

He saw Octavian's head turn stiffly toward him and he met the eyes that were deep within the folds of the hood.

“The men understand,” Octavian said. “We will not let you down.”

Julius felt a tightness in his throat that had nothing to do with the cold. “I know, lad. I do know,” he said gently.

The wind battered against them like the pressure of a warning hand as they pushed on. Julius could not speak for the pride he felt. He thought he hardly deserved the simple faith his men placed in his leadership. The responsibility was his alone to see them survive their time in Greece, and he knew what he had been given in their trust.

“Pompey will be in our camp by now,” Octavian said suddenly, looking at the sun as it fought clear of the eastern hills. “He'll come fast when he sees where we're going.”

“We'll run them into the ground,” Julius said, not sure if he believed it.

He had planned and prepared as much as he could before leaving Rome, but the simple fact was that he needed to find food for his men. Caecilius had said Dyrrhachium held the main supply, and Julius would have to push his legions on through exhaustion to reach it. He had other reasons for going to the city, but without food, his campaign would come to a shuddering halt and everything they had fought for would be lost.

He feared the pursuit. Though his men had been well rested as they prepared the feint to the east, they could not march forever in such conditions. No matter what Renius had thought of the spirit of fighting men, the strength of their bodies could take them only so far. Julius glanced behind him out of primitive fear, knowing that if Pompey's army was sighted, he would have to double the pace. His men would begin to fall without rest and Dyrrhachium was still far to the north.

Every stage of the campaign seemed to have skirted the edge of disaster, he thought privately. Perhaps after seizing the supplies in Dyrrhachium, he would have time to breathe without Pompey's army nipping at his heels. The only cause for optimism was that his knowledge of Pompey seemed to be giving him an edge in the maneuvers. He had hoped Pompey would not attack while a full legion remained out of sight. Domitius had been ready to take Dyrrhachium alone if necessary, while Julius decoyed his enemy into the east, but Pompey had behaved exactly as he had hoped.

Julius told himself over and over that he had to be cautious, though he had never expected Pompey to abandon Rome. He could not shake the suspicion that the Dictator had lost his taste for war. If that was true, Julius knew he should do everything possible to keep Pompey afraid.

He looked at the sun and gave way to the inevitable.

“Call a halt here and let the men eat and sleep. We will rest for four hours before moving on.”

The horns sounded and Julius dismounted painfully, his hips and knees aching. All around him, the legionaries sat down where they were and took what little food they had from their packs. The dried meat was like stone and Julius looked dubiously at his ration as it was brought to him. It would need a lot of chewing before it approached being edible. Shivering like an old man, he forced a piece of it between his lips and took a swig from a waterskin to begin the softening. From a pouch in his cloak, he took a wad of dried watercress that was said to reverse baldness, pushing it into his cheek in a quick, furtive motion. Visions of soft bread and fruit in Dyrrhachium filled his thoughts as he worked his jaw.

Pompey was ten hours or less behind them and would make better time in the short winter day. Julius passed his reins to a soldier on first watch and lay down on the hard ground. He was asleep moments later.

Octavian smiled with affection as he saw the still, pale features. Careful not to wake him, he took an extra blanket from his saddle and draped it over his general.

         

Pompey put his hand into the ashes of a watch fire, frowning as he felt the warm hearth. His stomach had revolted at the thought of food and he had eaten nothing since noon the day before. He swallowed bitter acid and winced as it seared his throat.

“Are the trackers in?” he demanded, his voice harsh with anger and pain.

“They are, sir,” Labienus replied. “The path leads south and west before curving north toward Dyrrhachium.”

He stood stiffly in the wind, ignoring the discomfort of the cold while his thoughts raged within. The men would know very well that Pompey had lost sight of an army of twenty thousand men through his caution. It would not help morale, after coming close enough to see them the day before. They had woken from sleep with the nervous tension that was to be expected before a battle and now there was no enemy to be seen.

“I knew it,” Pompey snapped, furious. “As soon as I heard they had gone, I knew it. We should be able to cut that curve and gain an hour on them.” He clenched a fist and tapped it on his leg. “If it is Dyrrhachium they're after, there must be spies in the camps,” he said, working his mouth.

Labienus stared at the horizon.

“How could they go round us without a single scout marking their movement, Labienus? Tell me that!” Pompey demanded.

Labienus knew as well as he that the proof that it could be done lay in the fact that it had been. By taking a wide route, Caesar had not come closer to Pompey's camp than two miles and it had clearly been enough. Pompey did not seem to require an answer.

“It seems that I must follow,” he went on, angrily. “They have had the night to get ahead. Can we catch them?”

Labienus looked at the sun automatically, judging how many hours had been lost. His sour conclusion was that it would be near impossible, but he could not find it in himself to tell Pompey in that mood.

“At our best speed, eating on the march and without sleep, we should hit their rear before they are in the city,” he said. “Your new walls may slow them.” He paused to choose the right words that would not worry Pompey further. “Even if they reach the city, they will need time to replenish their supplies. We can deny them that.”

Labienus was careful to keep any hint of criticism from his voice, though he was privately appalled at the turn of events. Dyrrhachium was a key port on the coast and still the main store for the army in the field. Caesar's legions should not have been allowed to make a strike for it. He knew some of the responsibility lay on his shoulders, but it profited nothing to dwell on past mistakes. The new position was not yet lost.

Pompey glared around him. “Then let us leave this barren place. Everything but food and water must come behind us at the best speed they can manage. The Senate too: they won't stand the pace we will set.”

As Labienus saluted, Pompey mounted, his movements stiff with anger. He did not need to say that his family and the families of the Senate were in Dyrrhachium. Once Julius had them as hostages, his position would be immeasurably stronger. Pompey shook his head to clear it of hatred and fear. His stomach seemed to have settled as he made the decision, and he hoped a dose of chalk and milk would keep it docile for the day. His legions began to move around him, but he could no longer take comfort from their numbers.

         

Julius calculated the distance they had come, wishing he had the map in front of him. They had marched for twelve hours and the men were dragging their feet in the dust. Though they bore it grimly, some of them were staggering along and Julius had finally given the order to close up and rest an arm on the shoulder in front. It made them resemble invalids or refugees rather than legions of Rome, but every mile was one farther from the enemy behind.

“It should be in sight by now, surely?” Octavian said at his side.

Julius stared at him in silence until his younger relative swallowed and looked away. Julius squinted into the distance, searching for the first sign of the city. The sea glimmered silver to the west and that gave him hope that they were close. His eyes felt painful with weariness and he might have closed them as he rode, if the weakness would not have been seen.

Julius remembered marching in the wake of Spartacus's slave army years before, and it was strange to realize there was a huge advantage in being the hunter in such a chase. Something about being followed sapped the will to go on and Julius saw more and more of the heads turn to watch the land behind as they marched. He was on the point of snapping an order to keep their eyes to the front when he saw Domitius was there ahead of him, bellowing out commands as he rode up and down the ranks.

The ground they walked on was stained in places by dark splashes of urine. It was not an easy thing to do whilst marching, but the men were long inured to it. The ones at the back would be walking on damp ground all the way to Dyrrhachium. When they stopped to rest, there was no time to dig a latrine pit, and they had to use whatever foliage they could find to wipe themselves clean. Some of the men carried a cloth that they dampened with water, but the material became slick and foul after the first night and day. A long march was an unpleasant, stinking business for all of them and the cold ate at their strength far worse than a summer's heat.

The day seemed to have lasted forever and although Julius had been irritated with Octavian's comment, he too thought Dyrrhachium should have been in sight by then. The sun was already dropping toward the horizon and the order to snatch another four hours of precious rest would have to come soon.

A warning note sounded from the rear of the column and Julius turned in the saddle, craning to see. In the distance, something glinted amidst a low line of dust. He shook his head in desperation. Just at the moment when he would have called a halt, Pompey had appeared on the horizon. Julius did not know whether to rage at the fact that the gap had been closed, or be thankful his aching, exhausted men had not been told to stop at this most dangerous time. He looked at the stumbling, swaying lines of men and knew they would somehow have to go on.

Two of his far-flung extraordinarii came galloping back to his position and saluted as they turned their mounts.

“What news?” Julius asked, impatient at the slightest delay.

“The city is in sight, sir. Three miles ahead.”

Automatically, Julius looked at the sun and back at his column. It would be dark before they reached the walls, but the news would keep the men going, for all that.

“There is a wall before the city, sir, about two miles away. It looks manned.”

Julius swore aloud. Pompey had been busy. The thought of having to break through a defensive line while Pompey came racing up behind was almost too much to bear.

“I'll ride forward with you,” he said quickly. “I must see this for myself.” As he took a tighter grip on the reins, he looked over his shoulder at Octavian. “Tell the men to resume the standard distance between ranks. I will not be shamed in front of the enemy. Increase the pace for the last miles.”

He saw Octavian hesitate, not daring to voice his dislike of such an order.

“They will not let me down, General. My Tenth will lead them in.”

         

In the gloom of the fading day, the army of Caesar sent tremors of fear into the hearts of every soldier who stood on the incompleted wall around Dyrrhachium. At the full height of twelve feet and with a few thousand men, they might have had a chance of stopping the Gaul legions, but more than one section was just a few beams across a gap. It would not be nearly enough.

The warning shouts of Pompey's officers sent the Greek laborers harrying back to the protection of the city, tools littering the ground around them. Those grim soldiers who were left took positions as they were ordered, drawing swords and exchanging a few last words. They did not consider turning away, though the wind made them shiver as they waited.