The Gods of War (18 page)

He was proud of the trust Julius had placed in his leadership, but it added to the terrible tension he felt as he wormed his way across the dark landscape. Sweat stung his eyes from the physical effort, but he was determined to be in position by the time Julius gave the signal.

He glanced behind him at the men who had come on the attack. Their faces had been blackened with charcoal and they were almost invisible. When they rose to attack the flank of the legion camp, they would seem to come from nowhere. Domitius grunted as a sharp stone scraped along his ribs. He was thirsty, but they had not even brought water with them on this lightning raid. He was thankful not to have to drag a skin or a shield through the undergrowth. Their only encumbrances were swords, and even those caught on roots and made progress harder.

Two of Domitius's forward scouts came crouching back to him. He jumped as they appeared at his shoulder without a sound.

“Sir, there's a river ahead,” the closest one whispered into his ear.

Domitius stopped moving. “Deep?” he demanded.

“Looks like it, sir. It's right in our path.”

Domitius grimaced. He ordered his men to halt, knowing that time was running out for all of them. Venus was approaching the zenith and Julius would go in knowing Domitius would be there to support him.

Half rising, Domitius ran forward for a hundred paces. He heard the sound of water and saw a strip of moving blackness. Sudden fear touched him.

“How wide is it?”

“I don't know, sir. I went in up to my waist, then came back to warn you,” the man replied. “There's a vicious current. I don't know if we can get across it.”

Domitius grabbed him, almost throwing him toward the water. “We have to! This is why you are sent ahead. Take a rope across while I bring the men up.”

As the scout clambered into the shallows, Domitius ran back to the silent cohorts. It took only moments to bring them to the river and together they waited in the darkness.

Domitius clenched his fists as the minutes stretched with no sign. At intervals, he reached out to touch the rope that had been tied around a fallen tree. It twitched invisibly and he cursed the delay. He should have given the scout some sort of signal to tell them he had reached the other side, he realized. Such tiny details were easy to forget in the heat of the moment, but now he had to suffer the wait. The scout could have drowned, or he could just as easily be making his slow way back to them. He reached for the rope again and swore softly. It was slack and there was no movement.

The enemy camp was visible beyond the far bank. Domitius could see their lamps like gold coins in the dark. He fretted and shivered in the cold.

“Two more into the water here,” he ordered at last. “Ten more in each direction to find a fording place. We have to cross this.”

As he spoke, he saw bright streaks of fiery arrows leap into the air from the other side of the camp.

“Oh gods, no,” he whispered.

         

Labienus was jerked from his thoughts by screaming. He hesitated only for an instant as he saw a line of black figures appear in the pools of lamplight and slaughter the first of his legionaries.

“Horns!” he bellowed. “We are attacked! Sound horns!”

He began to run toward the enemy as the strident notes sounded, knowing he had to take control quickly. Then he halted, skidding, and slowly turned toward the other side of the camp, to the peaceful darkness there. He was reacting as Caesar would hope him to, he realized.

“First Cohort—guard the west.”

He saw men reverse direction at his order and only then did he run to his horse, throwing himself into the saddle. His legion were experienced men and he saw structure in the hurrying figures around him. He heard his centurions call for a defensive line and the beginnings of one form out of the first moments of chaos. He showed his teeth.

“Defend the east!” he bellowed. “Shield line and spears.” He dug in his heels and galloped through the camp toward the sounds of death and iron.

                                                      
CHAPTER
17
                                                      

J
ulius knew he was in trouble. The legion he faced had wasted very little time before a strong defensive line formed and the counterattack began. Wherever he looked, he could see soldiers rushing toward his position. Whoever commanded them clearly knew his business and Julius could feel the sudden wavering of his men as their charge staggered and slowed.

“Forward, Third!” Julius ordered.

The original plan for a fast destruction and withdrawal lay in ruins. He could not withdraw and leave the cohorts with Domitius to be slaughtered. Though surprise had been lost, Julius knew if he could hold for long enough, Domitius would send a shiver through the defenders and he could still salvage the attack. He needed to push the enemy back just to give the Third space to retreat, but there was no weakness in the lines. Julius had to watch as his men were hammered from their feet and more and more of the enemy charged in to add their strength. It was carnage.

Three ranks of men separated him from the killing and Julius could see his soldiers glance back at him as more and more were slain, willing him to call a retreat. The ground was covered with his black-faced soldiers and in the cold their wounds steamed visibly as blood pumped into the soil.

Julius waited, growing desperate. Domitius had to come soon or he would lose everything.

“Archers! Signal again!” he bellowed, though many of them were dead.

His men held firm as they heard, standing toe-to-toe with the enemy. Without shields, they were terribly vulnerable and Pompey's men used the advantage, ramming their own shields into faces, or down to break the small bones of sandaled feet. Julius winced at the screaming, and even as the flaming arrows soared over their heads once more, he felt something shift in his men. He could not see the start of it, but where they had been holding, suddenly they were turning to run.

Julius stood in stunned disbelief as men he had trained began to pelt past him. He heard his centurions snap furious orders, but the effect whiplashed through the Third and terror broke them apart.

In the distance, Julius heard the rumble of cavalry and his heart sank. Pompey was coming and his men were routed. He saw the standard-bearer of the Third come racing past him and Julius ripped the flag from his grasp.

“Third to
me
!” he roared, brandishing the pole in great sweeps.

The crowd of rushing men did not pause in their flight as they went around him. He saw a great dark mass of riders and realized he would die when they charged. In the churning chaos of the rout, Julius felt an eerie calm settle on him. He could not rally the Third and soon he would be left alone. His arms ached and he wondered how Brutus would take the news when he heard. He had a sea of regrets and he felt the ground shake as thousands of Pompey's extraordinarii galloped in from the dark.

He barely noticed that a few of the Third had responded and were forming up around him. New horn calls split the air and Julius saw the surge of cavalry halt. It did not matter. He could not outrun them. He waited for the end and wondered at his own lack of emotion. It had happened so quickly that he could hardly take in the change in fortunes. Pompey had no other opponents in Rome. Mark Antony would be brushed aside, quietly banished, or killed.

Julius leaned on the flagpole, panting. He did not speak to the men around him in the dark, feeling only contempt for them. He had learned the lessons of fear too long ago to remember. Perhaps it had been Renius's example, or his own father's, or Tubruk's simple brand of courage, but it had stayed with him. No matter what else a man accomplished, it was all worthless if he allowed fear to rule his actions. If it was terror of pain, it should be faced and crushed. What was pain, after all? Wounds healed and even those that did not were better than having to live in shame. Julius had seen men with crippling injuries who still held themselves proudly. They bore the scars with the same courage they had shown to receive them.

He held his head high as the enemy riders milled, waiting as he did for the order that would send them flying toward him. He would not cry out. He would not run.

         

Pompey rode to the head of his cavalry, every jolt from his horse sending a stab of pain that dimmed his vision. He had heard the alarm calls and interrupted his inspection to answer them, but now his eyes narrowed at the sight of Julius's legionaries running away.

He saw Labienus come galloping toward him and accepted his salute.

“What's happening?” he asked.

“A night attack, sir. We have beaten it back. A cavalry charge will finish them.”

Both men looked across the camp toward the fleeing enemy disappearing into the dark. A distant lonely figure waved a flag in the gloom and the movement attracted Pompey's eye. He saw the man plant the standard in the hard earth, where the breeze tugged at it. The man stood unnaturally still, the white speck of his face turned toward the horsemen. Pompey frowned in suspicion.

“It is a victory, sir,” Labienus said, more urgently. “With your permission, I will take the extraordinarii and ride them down.”

“It is a trap,” Pompey replied. “I am certain of it. When have you ever heard of Caesar's legions running in fear? He
wants
us to race out into the night for whatever he has waiting there. No. You will hold position until dawn.”

Labienus took a breath that hissed through his teeth as he struggled to control his temper. “Sir, I do not believe that. They have lost
hundreds
against my lines.”

“And he sent three to die in my tent, just to spread lies amongst the faithful, Labienus. That should have told you the quality of the man. He is a deceiver and I will not be deceived. You have heard my orders.”

Pompey's eyes were coldly implacable and Labienus knew he either had to kill him or accept what he had been told. It was not a real choice.

“Yes, sir,” he said, bowing his head. “I will have my men stand down.”

Pompey saw the distress even as Labienus tried to hide it. Despite the pain that spread in waves to torment him, he forced himself to speak. “You have done well here, General. I will not forget your loyalty.”

Looking out past the camp, Pompey saw the flag-bearer turn and be swallowed by darkness. The flag was left to flutter as a smudge of dim color against the night. With a last glance at Labienus, Pompey wheeled his mount and rode away, his cavalry turning with him.

Labienus could see the frustration in their faces, mirroring his own. It had not been a trap. Labienus had seen enough battles to know the moment when the enemy broke. It could come from a single coward throwing down his sword, or even a strange unseen communication when the courage would drain from men who could not have imagined it only an hour before. He clenched his fists in rage, looking out into the blackness. His second in command hovered at his shoulder and Labienus had no words for him that he dared speak aloud.

At last, he smothered his disappointment behind a stiff mask. “Have the men build a hostile camp around the fortifications,” he said. “It will slow the work, but what does that matter?”

He clamped his mouth shut rather than continue and his second saluted and went away to pass the orders on. Labienus felt the stares of his soldiers around him and wondered how much they understood of the battle.

“You have done well tonight,” he told them on impulse. “We have wounded Caesar at last.”

They cheered at his approval and order began to return around him. The cohort he had sent to the west came in looking fresh compared to their colleagues. They had not been needed, but Labienus found a few more words for them before he returned to his tent to write the formal report. For a long time, he sat by the light of a single lamp and stared into space.

         

Julius marched numbly through the darkness. Tiredness made him clumsy and every bush and thorn seemed intent on impeding his progress. More of the Third legion had coalesced around him, though the gods alone knew where the rest had scattered. It was the worst defeat he had seen in years and he walked as if dazed. He could not understand what had happened. When the attack had not come, he had given up his station by the flag and turned his back on Pompey. Even then, he had expected them to ride him down.

Julius had seen the Dictator in the lamplight and known him even at a distance. His red cloak had swirled around him in the wind and it had been easy to picture the man's savage pleasure when he was brought Julius's body. There had even been a moment when Julius felt Pompey looking directly at him, but still he had been allowed to slip into the sheltering night and head for the safety of his own lines.

When he heard the noise of marching men nearby, Julius drew his sword, convinced it was Pompey's men come at last. When he saw Domitius he did not speak, indeed he felt unable to utter a word to any of them. The soldiers of the Third had disgraced themselves. They knew it and marched across the land with their heads bowed in private misery. Even their ranks were chaotic as each man found his own pace, like a band of marauders rather than a disciplined force. No orders were called. It was as if the failure had stripped them of any claim to be soldiers of Rome. Julius had never seen such a dejected group and he had no sympathy for any of them.

Dawn was coming by the time they neared their main camp and with the gray light Julius believed at last that Pompey had lost his nerve. There was no other explanation that he could see. Domitius tried to speak, and was quickly silenced by a glare. The sentries let them pass without a challenge and they did not call out for news. The woeful expressions and dragging spears were clear enough.

Julius strode into his tent and threw down his helmet and sword with a clatter, before sitting at his map table. He rested his head on his hands for a moment and considered the events of the night. He had been terrified when he felt Pompey's gaze on him from across the camp, but there was no shame in being afraid, only in what followed. Men could still stand while they sweated in fear. They could resist pain and exhaustion and weakness. They could beat it all down inside and stand their line. That was Rome's strength and his men knew it as well as he did. Yet somehow the Third had run.

Approaching steps made him straighten in his seat and he took a deep breath as Ciro made it first into his presence. Regulus, Octavian, and Domitius were close behind and Julius watched Domitius without expression as he came to stand before him. Had he too lost his courage that night?

Under the black smears, Domitius looked exhausted. He removed his sword and laid it on Julius's table.

“Sir, I ask to be relieved of command,” he said. Julius did not reply and Domitius swallowed. “I . . . could not reach the position in time, sir. There is no excuse. I will resign my commission and return to Rome.”

“If our enemies were led by a man who knew how to win, I would be dead,” Julius said softly.

Domitius stared straight ahead in silence.

“Tell me what happened,” Julius said.

Domitius took a deep breath that shuddered out of him. “We found a river too deep to get across, sir. I saw the arrow signal while I was still on the wrong bank. By the time we had found a fording place, Pompey's legions had answered the horns and it was too late. I could still have attacked then. It was my choice alone that I did not. We recrossed the river and made our way back here.” He did not say that to have attacked Pompey's legions would have been suicide. His orders had not allowed him to make the decision.

Julius drummed his fingers on the table. “Did you see why Pompey halted the attack?”

“I saw him talk to his officers, but they were too far away,” Domitius replied, ashamed not even to be able to provide this small piece of information.

“I have not yet decided your fate, Domitius. Leave me and summon the Third before my tent. Have my Tenth march prisoner escort to them.”

Domitius saluted, his raised hand trembling. Julius waited until he had left before speaking again.

“I never thought I would see a legion of mine run in fear,” he said. He looked up at his generals and they could not meet his gaze. “I held the legion standard and they ignored it. They went past me.” He shook his head, remembering. “I left it there for Pompey. He has their honor, he might as well have their flag.”

They all heard the shouts and tramp of feet as the Tenth and Third gathered. Julius sat looking at nothing while his generals waited. The defeat seemed to have aged him and when he stood at last his eyes were blank and tired.

“Take your places, gentlemen. The day must run its course,” he said, gesturing outside. Without a word, they left the tent and he followed them into the pale sun.

The Third legion stood in silent ranks on the frozen ground. Many still bore the marks of the soot they had used on their faces, though most had taken a wet cloth and removed the worst of it. They carried their shields and swords and stood like men waiting for execution, with fear in every eye.

At their backs stood the Tenth, older and harder men. Julius remembered a time when some of them had run in the battles against Spartacus. He wondered if any of them were thinking back to that bloody day when Pompey himself had ordered the decimation of their ranks. The soldiers marked by the count had been beaten to death by the fists of their closest friends. It had been the most brutal thing Julius had ever witnessed at that time, yet out of it he had formed the Tenth and given them a name to record the deed.

The Third legion waited in silence for him to speak. A cold breeze blew through their ranks as Julius walked to his horse and mounted.

“You have fought with me in Gaul. Shall I name the tribes, the battles? The Helvetii, the Suebi, the Belgae, Nervii, more? You fought with me at Gergovia, Alesia, against Vercingetorix, and in Britain. You were with me when I pardoned the men of Corfinium. You took Dyrrhachium with me here.”