The Gods of War (17 page)

Without another word, Julius spun on his heel and strode back toward the great doors to the temple. His eyes itched with exhaustion and the thought of collapsing into a soft bed drew him with the force of lust. He knew his battered body would carry him on for a little longer, but then he would run the risk of pushing himself into a fit on this crucial night. He still rode the knife edge and a single slip could cost him the war.

As he reached his guards, the centurion met his eyes for an instant and nodded briefly, proving he had been listening. Julius returned the gesture with a tight smile as he went outside into the cold dark. Dawn was still far away and the stunned city was silent with fear. The invader walked amongst them.

         

Pompey looked up at the walls of the city, thankful for the darkness that hid his despair. He had dismissed Labienus with only the barest attempt at civility, furious that they had not reached Dyrrhachium before Caesar was safe to strut inside. The pain in his stomach felt like he was being eaten alive from within. The chalky gruels that had helped in the beginning now seemed almost useless. A soft moan came from his mouth as he kneaded his gut with a fist. He had wiped blood from his lips before coming out and viewed the red specks that stained the white cloth with sick dread. His own body was turning on him and he shoved hard fingers into his flesh as if he could dig the sickness out by force. He could not afford to be ill and he thought the Senate demands had become more strident with the worsening pain. It was as if they scented his weakness and were ready to tear him apart.

Only the stern resistance of his soldiers had kept Cicero and his colleagues from reaching him in his tent. What was there to be gained from another bickering discussion with them? Pompey couldn't bear the thought of having to be polite to those frightened men as they bleated about their precious wives and slaves.

He did not know what Caesar would do with the city. Of course, the stores would disappear into the ravening maw of his legions. Pompey had listened to Labienus's dispassionate appraisal of their own supplies now that Dyrrhachium was closed to them. He thanked his gods that he had found the foresight to shift tons of it before the war started. At least his own men would not starve while Julius grew fat on salt beef and black treacle.

He heard the sound of hooves in the darkness and looked up at the shadowy figure of Labienus approaching. With an effort, Pompey stood straighter to receive him, letting his hand fall. The pain in his stomach seemed to intensify, but he would not show it to his general.

“What is it now?” he snapped as Labienus dismounted.

“A messenger from Caesar, sir. He has come under a flag of truce,” Labienus replied.

Both men thought of the three centurions Julius had used before and wondered if this man too would sow discord in the camps.

“Have him brought to me in my tent, Labienus. Inform no one if you value your commission.”

Pompey struggled to maintain his impassive expression as a spot writhed in his stomach. Without waiting for a reply, he walked past his guards and seated himself in his tent, ready to hear what Caesar wanted.

He had barely settled when Labienus brought the man into his presence. Sweat broke out on Pompey's brow despite the cold and he mopped at it with a cloth, unaware of the brown stain of old blood.

The messenger was a tall, thin soldier with close-cropped hair and dark eyes that took in every detail of the man he faced. Pompey wondered if his illness would be reported and it took all his strength to ignore the pain he suffered. No sign of it must reach Caesar.

“Well?” he demanded impatiently.

“General. My master wishes you to know that the Senate families are unharmed. He will return them to you at dawn. The city of Dyrrhachium will be yours by noon. He has forbidden looting or damage of any kind.”

Pompey saw Labienus blink in surprise. It was unheard of for an army to give up the advantage they had won so easily.

“What does he want?” Pompey said, suspiciously.

“Three days, sir. He offers you the families and the city for the supplies within and three days of truce to get clear. He asks that you accept these terms.”

“Labienus,” Pompey said, “take him away while I think.”

In the moments of precious privacy, Pompey leaned forward, wincing. By the time Labienus returned, he was upright again and his face was bright with sweat.

“Are you ill, sir?” Labienus asked immediately.

“A passing discomfort. Tell me what you think of these terms.”

Pompey's mind felt clouded and the pain made it almost impossible to plan. As if he understood, Labienus spoke quickly.

“It seems generous, though once again our men will see Caesar act the role of statesman. They will see the families released and the truce days will be another victory as we are forced to follow his lead.” Labienus paused. “If the stakes were not so high, I would attack at dawn, as the gates are opened to release the families.”

“They could be killed in such a venture,” Pompey snapped.

Labienus nodded. “That is a risk, though I doubt it. Caesar would have been denied the chance to show his generosity to us all. Morale is low in our camps and three more have been caught trying to desert.”

“I was not informed!” Pompey said angrily.

Labienus held his gaze for a moment. “You were not available, sir.”

Pompey remembered his earlier dismissal and flushed.

“Make it known that any deserters will be killed in front of the rest. I will remind them of their duty with the blood of those men.”

“I thought we might question them first, sir, and—”

“No. Kill them at dawn as a lesson to the others.” He hesitated, anger struggling against the need to send the man away and tend his pain. “I will grant the truce, Labienus. I have no choice if my Dictatorship is to be renewed. The Senate families must be kept from harm.”

“And the city, sir? If we let him go without resistance, he will have the supplies to keep him in the field for three months at least. We must attack when the Senate families are safe.”

“And how long do you think it would be before every common soldier knows I broke my word? You see the choice he has left me?” Pompey said.

“This is a chance to end it, sir,” Labienus said softly.

Pompey glared at him, wanting him gone. His eyes strayed to a pestle and mortar that contained a little of the gruel from an hour before. He could hardly bear to have Labienus continue a moment longer in his presence. He remembered a time when his oath had made him who he was.

“Get out, General. Caesar has offered a good price for three days of truce. After that, we will be free to take the war to him again. No more now.”

Labienus saluted stiffly. “I will tell the messenger what you have ordered, sir,” he said.

Alone at last, Pompey called for his physician and closed his eyes against the pain that consumed him.

                                                      
CHAPTER
16
                                                      

J
ulius sighed with pleasure as he finished his meal. Every cart with his legions groaned under the weight of the provisions they had taken from the city. For the first time since coming to Greece, the men were able to eat well. Their new confidence could be seen as they marched, and even the cold did not seem to bite with such ferocity.

In the command tent, his generals were in a jovial mood as they sampled good wine and tore into meat and fresh bread made from Greek grain. The fact that it had come from Pompey's supplies seemed to give it all a special flavor.

Julius looked around at the seven men he had gathered in this place, proud of them all. He knew there would be harder days to come, but why should they not laugh and joke amongst themselves? They had fooled Pompey in the field and then forced him to accept a truce in exchange for a city. That was a move they applauded more than the legionaries, who felt cheated of their usual spoils. Even then, they had such a belief in Julius that the grumbling was muted. As soldiers, they rejoiced in stratagems that humbled their enemy without a major battle.

“If I can drag you away from your trough, gentlemen,” Julius said, tapping the table for attention, “the scouts are in and there is news.” He put a hand over his mouth to belch and smiled, remembering the long, hard march to take the city. The gods were smiling on his venture and though he warned himself against overconfidence, the latest reports confirmed what he had come to believe. He had their attention.

“Pompey's army has not left Dyrrhachium. He has continued with his line of forts and walls, now that we have shown the need for them.”

Octavian slapped Domitius on the back at this and Julius smiled at their enthusiasm.

“We have only one man in the city itself and Caecilius has not been able to reach us. The scouting reports are all we have. It may be that Pompey intends to ring the city with a line of solid forts before he takes the field once more. Or perhaps he has lost his taste for war completely. He is not the man he once was. When I think of how he fought Spartacus, the change is extraordinary.”

“He's grown old,” Regulus said.

Julius exchanged a glance with him, knowing that Regulus knew Pompey as well as any of them. “He's not yet sixty, though I cannot think of any other reason for him to play such a defensive role. He has twice the men at my command, yet they sit around Dyrrhachium and do nothing but build walls to keep us out.”

“Perhaps he's terrified of us,” Octavian said, between mouthfuls of salted beef. “We've given him cause after leading him around Greece by the nose. The Senate have their wives and daughters back by your generosity and they must know we could have burnt Dyrrhachium.”

Julius nodded, thinking. “I had hoped some of his legions would have joined us by now. I have done everything but ride to ask them personally, yet still there are only a few who dare to defy Pompey and the Senate. The scouts report more than eighty heads adorning his new walls, honorable men who answered our call and were caught. Fewer still have made it to our camps.”

“It will not help him,” Domitius said. “The more he kills for desertion, the more will lose respect for him. We gave them Dyrrhachium without hurting a hair of the citizens' heads. Killing his own men must aid our cause.”

“I hope so, though I wish more had tried to reach us,” Julius said. “Their loyalty is proving a difficult obstacle.” He rose to his feet and began to pace the floor of the tent. “Unless we can reduce his numbers, we have not gained more than a respite. How long will this new meat and grain last? Pompey can be supplied by sea, while we have to carry everything with us.” He shook his head. “We must not be complacent. I have tried to beat him without bloodshed, but I think it is time to risk a little more than that.”

Julius held up a written report and glanced at the words on the parchment once more.

“His legions are spread thinly to build these walls. Only six cohorts are stationed at the furthest eastern point of his lines. If I take a single legion, leaving our equipment here, we can cut them out of his control and reduce his strength. More important, we need a solid victory to sway more of his men into coming over to us. This could give us that.”

The mood in the tent changed as they realized the days of planning and strategy were over. Food was laid aside and they watched their pacing leader, feeling the old excitement stiffen their backs.

“I do not want to be dragged into a major confrontation, gentlemen. This is to be a fast strike, in and then out again. Ciro, you may remember how we fought Mithridates in this same land. That is what I have in mind. We will destroy these cohorts and then withdraw before Pompey can summon his main army.”

He paused, looking around at the faces of the men he trusted.

“Domitius, you will command four cohorts and hit them on one side as I attack on the other. We have the advantage of surprise and darkness and it should be over quickly.”

“Yes, sir,” Domitius said. “Will four cohorts be enough?”

“With four more under me, it will. A small force can move quickly and silently. Any more and Pompey may have the chance to prepare a counterattack. This is all about speed. We'll march in darkness, smash them, and disappear.” He rubbed a point on his forehead as he thought. “It may sting Pompey into taking the field. If that happens, all legions are to withdraw south until we reach land best suited for a defense.”

“What if he does not move?” Ciro asked.

“Then he has lost his nerve completely. I assume the Senate will attempt to replace him with another from his Greek legions. I will then reopen negotiations. Without Pompey, any action they take will be illegal and we should have more of them desert to us.” He picked up his cup of wine and raised it in a toast to them.

“There is no moon tonight. As they will not come out, we will take the fight to them.”

         

The work of building Pompey's walls never ceased. Even in the winter darkness, the men labored in shifts under flickering torches. Labienus looked over the hillside, listening to the calls and orders as his legion built an extension to the fortifications around Dyrrhachium.

“This is madness,” he murmured under his breath.

Even standing alone, he glanced around him to see if any of his men could have heard. Ever since Dyrrhachium had been handed back to Pompey, Labienus had found his personal discipline strained to the point of breaking. He was forced to watch as Pompey gave up chances to end the war, wasting his men on forts around a city that had already lost its only real value. True, more supplies were being landed in the port, but to spend time and strength on protecting one small area while Caesar roamed the rest of Greece went against all Labienus's instincts. In his most private thoughts, he had realized Pompey was terrified. Whether it was the illness he vainly sought to hide, or simply that his courage had deserted him, Labienus could not tell. He did not care what the reason was. The largest army Greece had seen in generations was either growing soft in the city or building useless defenses.

It was infuriating to see loyal legions become sullen and watchful. Only that morning, Labienus had carried out the execution of another four men at Pompey's order. The record of punishment would show they were insolent, though that had come only after Pompey condemned them. It had begun with a flogging for carrying bone dice on watch. Three of them had been fools enough to let their anger show.

Labienus clenched his fist in a spasm. He had known one of them personally and suffered the misery of having to reject a private appeal. He had risked a request for mercy, but Pompey would not see him until the executions had been carried out.

It was fear, Labienus supposed to see enemies even amongst your own men. Pompey took out his frustration on the legions of Greece and the worst of it was that they knew very well what was happening and despised him for it. Labienus could sense their restlessness and growing anger. Eventually, the most loyal of soldiers would rebel under such treatment.

In a climate of suspicion, Labienus detested the risks he was forced to take. When he tried to consult with Pompey, he was rebuffed, but the chain of command threw up its orders and requests as always. He could not allow his subordinates to see Pompey's weakness. Each morning, Labienus issued crisp instructions as if they were from Pompey, hoping all the time that the Dictator would come to his senses and resume control. It was a suicidally dangerous game, but Pompey's only interest seemed to be the defensive walls that grew like ugly bones across the landscape. With the pace he demanded, lives were lost building them, and the mood of the legions was souring further each day. They knew their strength and numbers should not be wasted, even if Pompey didn't.

Only that morning, Labienus had had to send his military tribunes away as they broached the subject of Pompey's leadership. They did not understand he could not be seen to waver. His loyalty had to be public and absolute, or the chain of command would shatter. It was too dangerous even to discuss and he was still furious with their stupidity. More worrying was the fact that if senior men dared to bring it up, the rot must be deep amongst the lower ranks.

Labienus suspected he had not been sent so far from the city by accident. Perhaps Pompey already doubted his loyalty. He was certainly suspicious enough. The last time Labienus had been admitted into his presence, one of Julius's propaganda sheets had been found circulating and Pompey had raged about the traitors amongst them, promising more and more savage reprisals. Copying the letters had become punishable by death, but still they appeared. Pompey had insisted on reading Caesar's words aloud, spittle and chalk forming a paste at the corners of his mouth. In the days that followed, he had begun sudden inspections of the legions around the city, punishing the slightest error with brutal floggings.

The thought that could never be spoken aloud had become a whisper at last for Labienus. Unless Pompey recovered from whatever plagued him, he could destroy them all. Though it was almost painful to consider, Labienus knew there could come a time when he would have to take control himself.

He thought the Senate would back him, if they could bring themselves to overturn Pompey's authority. The Dictatorship they renewed each year was ending in only a few days. It would either pass without incident, or Pompey would be broken. If Pompey called on the legions without a Senate mandate, Labienus knew he would have to oppose him. It would be chaos. Some would follow Pompey, perhaps more would desert to Caesar. Labienus shuddered, telling himself it was just the cold.

         

Julius lay flat on the hard earth and felt the chill of it seep into him. Hidden by the darkness more than the undergrowth, he watched the building work for a full hour, noting every detail of the men who toiled on Pompey's walls and forts.

The soldiers who carried wood and bricks were never far from their weapons, he saw. Only the fact that they did not have sentries out for miles showed their feeling of safety. Julius bit his lip as he considered whether it meant a larger force was close enough to answer their horns. He had no way of being sure without going past the line of Pompey's walls, and the plan had already been set. Domitius had taken two thousand men of the Third legion in a wide circle to the north. When Julius fired flaming arrows into the air, they would hammer both sides of the camp at the same time. With the gods' luck, it would be a quick destruction.

Julius wondered suddenly if Brutus was down there amongst his enemies, perhaps anticipating just such an attack. They had mounted night missions in Gaul; would he have warned Pompey? Julius shook his head in a spasm, angry that he was allowing his thoughts to wander. He had seen it happen to others, when foresight tipped over into indecision. He clenched his jaw against the cold and concentrated on seeing only what was real.

In the deep darkness, the sentries seemed to vanish between the lamps that lined the perimeter of the camp. The wall too was lined with them, so that its glittering length stretched away toward Dyrrhachium.

He glanced up to where Venus had risen. He had waited long enough for Domitius to get into position. Slowly, Julius drew the sword at his waist and heard the sibilant whisper as the soldiers of the Third legion did the same around him. To their credit, there was not a single murmur to disturb the silence of the night. He had chosen them in part because they had been Brutus's legion. He knew they needed to be blooded against the enemy more than any other group. They had suffered jeers and humiliation after their general's betrayal and they still burned with the shame of it. This night would go some way to restoring their pride.

“Pass the word for archers,” Julius whispered, keeping so low that he could smell the dark earth. He had brought a full hundred of them to attack the camp, and once the fire arrows had flown, they would wreak havoc amongst the enemy.

Julius winced as their flints sparked. Their bodies hid the flashes as they worked, but he still worried that some sharp-eyed sentry would spot the light and sound an alarm. He breathed out in relief when flames flickered at last, passed quickly along the line until a hundred arrows burned.

“Now!” Julius called and the flames shot high into the air. Domitius would see them and come in to shatter the camp.

Julius rose to his feet. “With me,” he said, beginning to run down the slope. They followed him.

         

Domitius crawled through the darkness, pausing only to take a sight of the stars he needed to stay on course. The route he had chosen led him inside the unfinished wall and he was able to use their own lights to judge his progress. There were no sentries within the perimeter and his two thousand were still undiscovered. He prayed they would remain so, knowing that Julius must not attack without him.