The Gods of War (25 page)

Octavian snorted. “I can't help it. After all he's done, he stands with us as if he has a right. I don't know what Julius was thinking, bringing him here.”

“Neither do I,” Domitius replied. “It's between them, though.”

Regulus hissed in a breath, making them all turn back to the sea. As the sun sank in the west, the galleys were moving, their great oars sweeping them in toward the dock.

Octavian looked at the others. “Until we know he is safe, I want the men in formation to repel an attack. Get spears ready. Domitius, have the extraordinarii stand back as foot reserves. They're no good to us here.”

Caesar's generals moved away quickly to give the orders, not thinking to question his right to command them. Octavian was left alone to watch the galleys sweep in.

The little port could not take all six of the ships that clustered around the bay. Two of them came in together and Octavian watched as one bank of oars withdrew, leaving the other to scull the final gap to the dock. In the gloom, he could hardly make out the details of the great corvus bridges that were sent crashing down. Crewmen carrying ropes thumped across them and then Octavian saw Julius on the wooden slope. He sagged in relief.

Julius raised an arm in formal greeting. “Are the men ready to board, General?” he called.

“They are, sir,” Octavian replied, smiling. Julius could still astonish him, he realized with amusement.

“Then get them on. There is no time to waste. The galleys carried his horses only two days ago—we have almost closed the gap.” He paused, feeling again the thrill of the hunt. “Tell them there are good stocks of food on board and they'll move a little faster.”

Octavian saluted and walked over to the men he commanded. Julius would have noted the formations and ready spears, though he could hardly mention it with the galley crews in earshot. Octavian could not help but grin as he relayed the order to the centurions of the Fourth legion. Though there would be harder days of marching ahead, he felt a growing confidence. Pompey would not escape them.

         

The slow dawn brought the coast of Asia Minor into view, with sharp, gray-green mountains plunging into the sea. Geese called overhead, and pelicans floated high above the galleys, watching for silver shoals beneath the surface. The first touches of spring were in the air and the morning seemed full of promise.

It was a new land for all of them, farther east from Rome than Britain lay to the west. Asia Minor supplied the cedar that built galleys for Rome. Its figs, apricots, and nuts would pack the holds of merchant ships heading for home markets. It was a golden land, an ancient one, and somewhere in the north were the ruins of Troy. Julius remembered how he had bothered his tutors to be told the stories of that place. Alexander had been there and offered sacrifice at the tomb of Achilles. Julius ached to stand where the Greek king had stood.

He shivered in the spray from the bows as the oar slaves propelled them toward a tiny port.

“When I return to Rome after all this,” he said to Domitius, “I will have seen the ends of Roman land, both east and west. It makes me proud to be so far from home and still hear the speech of my city. To find
our
soldiers here, our laws and ships. Is it not wonderful?”

Domitius smiled at Julius's enthusiasm, feeling it himself. Though the pursuit across Greece had been hard, a different mood was stealing through the legions. Perhaps it was the aftermath of Pharsalus, as they realized they had come to the end of their years of battle. The sight of Julius commanding the enemy galleys had made it a reality. They were no longer at war. Their task was merely to stamp out the last embers of Pompey's rule. Those who had been with Julius from Spain and Gaul felt it most strongly of all. They clustered at the rails of the six galleys, laughing and talking with unaccustomed lightness.

Domitius glanced up to where Adàn had climbed the mast. Even so far above their heads, the Spaniard's voice could be heard as he sang some ballad from his youth.

         

The quaestor of the tiny coastal port spoke excellent Latin, though he had grown up in sight of the local barracks. He was a short, dark man who bowed as Julius entered the dock buildings and did not rise until permission came.

“Consul,” he said. “You are welcome here.”

“How long since Pompey's riders left this place?” Julius asked impatiently.

The little man did not hesitate and Julius realized Pompey had left no orders to stop the pursuit. He had not expected them to cross against his galleys. It gave Julius hope that Pompey might have slowed his pace.

“The Dictator left last night, Consul. Is your business urgent? I can have messengers sent south if you wish.”

Julius blinked in surprise. “No. I am hunting the man. I do not want him warned.”

The quaestor looked confused. In two days, he had seen more foreign soldiers than at any other point in his life. It would be a story for his children that he had spoken with not one but two of the masters of Rome.

“Then I wish you luck in the hunt, Consul,” he said.

                                                      
CHAPTER
23
                                                      

T
hey sighted Pompey's riders after four days of hard marching. They had made good time heading south, and when at last the scouts rode in with the news, Julius's men let out a great cheer. It had been a long chase, but when the horns sounded and they formed ranks for an attack, they were ready to crush the enemy for the last time.

Pompey's men heard the horns and Julius could only imagine the fear and consternation in their ranks. These were the same extraordinarii who had run at Pharsalus. To find themselves hunted in another country would be a terrible blow. They had been beaten once and Julius did not doubt his men could do it again. It gave him pleasure to outnumber Pompey's small force, as he had been at Pharsalus. Let them know what it felt like to face so many warriors bent on their destruction.

In the distance, Julius saw the ranks of Roman horsemen wheel, turning to face the threat. It was a hopeless gesture, but he admired their courage. Perhaps they wished to wipe the slate clean for the rout they had suffered before. He saw them kick their mounts into a steady trot back toward the Tenth, and he showed his teeth in anticipation, looking for Pompey's red cloak amongst them.

Along the ranks of the Tenth and Fourth, the legionaries readied spears. As the thunder of hooves came to them, they lifted their heads, swept up in savagery that was a little like joy.

         

“Go, sir, please! Let us hold them here,” the decurion, Casitas, shouted to Pompey.

The Dictator sat as if stunned. He had not spoken since the first appalling moment when Roman war horns had sounded behind. It was not a sound he had ever expected to hear again.

As he watched the legions from Pharsalus, Pompey mopped at a dark stain on his lips and considered riding with the last of his armies. It would be a grand gesture perhaps. The poets of Rome would write it into their ballads when they spoke of his life.

His vision blurred as his pain writhed inside him. He wore armor no longer, having none that could contain the swelling. It grew daily, pressing up into his lungs until it was hard to breathe. There were times when he would have given anything just to slip into the peaceful dark. He dreamed of an end to the agony and as he patted his horse's neck he yearned to kick his mount into a last gallop.

“Sir! You can get clear. The coast is only a few miles farther south,” Casitas bellowed, trying to break through the stupor that held his commanding general.

Pompey blinked slowly, then Caesar's legions seemed to sharpen in his vision and his wits returned. He looked across at the decurion. The man was desperate for Pompey to ride and his eyes pleaded.

“Do what you can,” Pompey said at last and somehow, over the noise of the horses, Casitas heard and nodded in relief. He called quick orders to those around him.

“Fall out, Quintus! Take Lucius and go with the consul. We will hold them as long as we can.”

The named riders pulled out of the formation to Pompey's side. Pompey looked around him at the men who had come so far from home. The vagueness that had smothered his mind as the sickness worsened seemed to have lifted for a few precious moments.

“I have been well served by you all,” he called to them.

He turned his back and as he rode away he heard the order given to begin the advance that would end in a desperate blow against Caesar's soldiers.

The sea was not too far away and there would be ships there to take him clear of Roman lands at last. He would lose himself where Rome had no authority and Julius could search for years without finding him.

Pompey patted the leather bag that was strapped to his saddle, taking comfort from the gold within. He would not be poor when he reached the ports of Egypt. They had healers there who would take away the pain at last.

         

The Tenth and Fourth launched their spears less than thirty feet from the charging line. The heavy shafts destroyed the first horses and hampered those behind as they found the way blocked. The veteran legions moved quickly forward, darting in to gut the milling horses and pull men down from saddles. They had fought cavalry in Gaul and had no fear of the stamping, rearing beasts.

Pompey's riders did not give their lives easily and Julius was staggered at their recklessness. Even when it was hopeless, they fought on with grim despair. He could hardly believe they were the same soldiers he had seen fleeing the plain of Pharsalus.

The field was filled with guttural shouts and the hacking sound of metal cutting flesh. Julius's own riders had moved to flank the single charge and began to batter them on all sides. They trampled purple flowers under the feet of their mounts, spattering the ground with strips of blood until they were numb with killing.

When Pompey's men were reduced to less than a thousand, Julius signaled the cornicens to sound the disengage. His legions stepped back from piles of broken flesh, and in the lull he offered an end to it.

“What does it profit you to fight to the last?” he shouted to them.

One man in the armor of a decurion rode up and saluted, his face grim.

“It is not such a great thing, to die here,” Casitas said. “Our honor is restored.”

“I grant you all honor, Decurion. Accept my pardon and tell your men to stand down.”

Casitas smiled and shook his head. “It is not yours to offer,” he said, turning his horse away.

Julius gave him time to reach his companions before he sent the legions in once more. It took a long time to kill them all. When there were no more than a few weary men standing on the red field, he tried for peace a final time and was refused. The last man alive had lost his horse and still raised his sword as he was smashed from his feet.

The legionaries did not cheer the victory. They stood, bloody and panting, like dogs in the sun. The silence stretched across the field and there were many in the ranks who whispered prayers for the men they had faced.

Julius shook his head in awe at what he had witnessed. He barely noticed as the search began for the body of Pompey. When it was not found, Julius looked south, his face thoughtful.

“He did not deserve such loyalty,” he said. “Find me a clear spot to make a camp and rest. We will move on tomorrow when we have honored our Roman dead. Make no distinction between them. They were men of the same city.”

         

In three merchant ships, only the two thousand survivors of Julius's beloved Tenth made the final crossing to Alexandria. His extraordinarii had been left behind with the Fourth to wait for transport. He did not know if he could find Pompey there. The land had never been conquered by Rome and all he knew of the customs were memories taught to him as a child. It was Alexander's city, named for him. Though Egypt was another world to Julius, Alexandria was the resting place of the Greek king he had idolized all his life.

The mark he had left on the world had endured for centuries and even the Egyptian kings were descended from one of Alexander's generals, Ptolemy. If Pompey had not fled across the sea to escape him, Julius knew he might well have traveled there just to see the glories he had heard described as a boy. He remembered standing once at a broken statue of the Greek king and wondering if his own life could be used so well. Now he would step onto the soil of Egypt as ruler of the greatest empire in the world. He need not bow his head to any man, or any man's memory.

The thought brought a wave of homesickness as he realized spring would have come in the forum in Rome. The orators would be addressing the crowds, teaching points of philosophy and law for small coins. Julius had spent only a few months in his birthplace in almost twenty years and grown old in her service. He had left his youth on foreign lands and lost more than Rome had ever given him.

What had he gained in comparison to the lives of men he called friends? It was strange to think that he had spent the years so freely. He had earned the right to be first in his city, but he could take no joy in it. Perhaps the path had changed him, but he had expected more.

The main entrance to the port of Alexandria was through a deep-water passage between enclosing arms of rock that made the experienced men frown. The gap through which they sailed was narrow enough to be easily blocked, and Julius could not escape the feeling that the harbor was a natural trap.

As the ships glided under sail toward the docks, the heat seemed to increase and Julius wiped sweat from his brow. The soldiers on deck gestured in amazement at a vast square column of white marble built at the edge of the port. It stood higher than any building in Rome and Julius was touched by nostalgia for the days when he had nothing more to fear than a whipping from his tutors. The Pharos lighthouse had seemed impossibly distant then. He had never expected to pass so close and he craned his neck with the others, lost in wonder. Somewhere in the city lay the greatest library in the world, containing all the works of philosophy and mathematics that had ever been written. It was somehow obscene to bring his killers into such a place of wealth and learning, but soon his vengeance would be over and he would be free to see the lands of gold.

The water was busy with hundreds of other craft carrying the trade of nations. Julius's merchant captains had to work to avoid collision as they approached the spit of land reaching out into the perfect anchorage that had once attracted Alexander.

Julius turned his gaze at last to the city, frowning as distant figures resolved into armed warriors, waiting on the docks. He saw bows and spears held upright. The front ranks carried oval shields, though they wore no armor and only a breechcloth and sandals, leaving their chests bare. It was clear enough that they were not Roman. They could not have been.

At their head stood a tall man in bulky robes that glittered in the sun. The man's gaze could be felt even at a distance and Julius swallowed dryly. Were they there to welcome him or prevent a landing? Julius felt the first prickle of alarm as he saw that the closest soldiers carried drawn swords of bronze, gleaming like gold.

“Let me go first, sir,” Octavian murmured at his shoulder. The legionaries of the Tenth had fallen silent as they caught sight of the army on the docks, and they were listening.

“No,” Julius replied without turning round. He would not show fear in the face of these strange people. The consul of Rome walked where he chose.

The corvus bridge was lowered with ropes and Julius walked over it. He heard the clatter of iron studs as his men followed and he sensed Octavian close at his side. With deliberate dignity, Julius strode to the man who waited for him.

“My name is Porphiris, courtier to King Ptolemy, thirteenth of that name,” the man began, his voice oddly sibilant. “He who is king of Lower and Upper Egypt, who displays the regalia and propitiates the gods. He who is beloved—”

“I am looking for a man of Rome,” Julius interrupted, pitching his voice to carry. He ignored the shock and anger in Porphiris's eyes. “I know he came here and I want him brought to me.”

Porphiris bowed his head, concealing his dislike. “We have received word from the merchants of your search, Consul. Know that Egypt is a friend of Rome. My king was distressed to think of your armies clashing in our fragile cities and prepared a gift to you.”

Julius narrowed his eyes as the ranks of armed men parted and a muscular slave walked forward with a measured tread. He carried a clay vessel in his outstretched arms. Julius saw figures of great beauty worked into the surface.

As it was placed at his feet, the slave stood back and knelt on the docks. Julius met the gaze of the king's representative and did not move. His question had not been answered and he felt his temper fray. He did not know what they expected of him.

“Where is Pompey?” he demanded. “I—”

“Please. Open the jar,” the man replied.

With an impatient jerk, Julius removed the lid. He cried out in horror then and the lid slipped from his fingers to shatter on the stones.

Pompey's pale face looked up from under fragrant oil. Julius could see the gleam of his Senate ring resting against his cheek. He reached slowly down and broke the surface, touching the cold flesh as he drew out the gold band.

He had met Pompey first in the old Senate house, when Julius had been little more than a boy. He recalled the sense of awe he had felt in the presence of legends like Marius, Cicero, Sulla, and a young general named Gnaeus Pompey. It had been Pompey who cleared the Mare Internum of pirates in forty days. It had been he who broke the rebellion under Spartacus. For all he had become an enemy. Julius had bound his family and his fate with Pompey in a triumvirate to rule.

There were too many names on the scrolls of the dead, too many who had fallen. Pompey had been a proud man. He deserved better than to be murdered by the hands of strangers, far from home.

In front of them all, Julius wept.